The first time I tried going to Broadway’s Bar and Grill without Shawn, the very first parking spot by the front door was available. That never happens. The lot is almost always packed, especially at this time of day. But today, on this quiet pre-St. Paddy’s day afternoon, there it was—waiting for me.

I sat in my car for a moment, wondering about the parking spot. Is it Shawn making sure it was available for me? Does he want me to do this?  

I took some deep breaths. I knew going in would be hard. This was his place, where he’d unwind after work. I’d meet him there when I finished my work day, and even if we had just seen each other hours before, he would always get up from his seat at the bar, wrap his arms around me, and hold me like it had been days. Always so happy to see me. Always with his glass of wine, scrolling through his phone until the moment I walked in. 

He was the best hugger. I miss him.

I moved slowly toward the front door, my reflection staring back at me. It took me five minutes before I could finally open it.

Inside, everything was exactly the same. This world didn’t move on. 

To the left is the party area—often filled with hockey teams or birthday celebrations. To the right: the high-top tables where teenagers liked to sit, laughing over milkshakes. And straight ahead, the bar.

Three seats from the end. His seat.

I could almost see him there: wine in hand, head down, phone in front of him. I took another deep breath. One foot in front of the other, I kept telling myself. One foot in front of the other until I made it to the bar.

And there was Zach, the manager.

His name always made me smile, as it was my son’s name, too. We’d often talk about our kids, their time at the same elementary school, and the highs and lows of parenting. When he saw me, he immediately walked over. He gave me a double fist bump, his eyes filling with understanding.

“You did it. You got in here.”

“I did it. I got in here.”

I sat down at the bar, just like we always did. But I couldn’t sit too close to his seat just yet. The TVs were
on—football on one, hockey on another, a sports talk show on the third. Music played in the background at just the right volume. The kind of background noise that makes you feel part of something but never overwhelmed.

I ordered a Corona with extra lime. The lime was cut too thick, so they quickly grabbed fresh ones without hesitation—just one of those small, thoughtful gestures that make a place feel like home.

Then JD walked in.

JD, the bartender, always seemed to know what you wanted before ordering it. I love when he’s working. He’s the kind of bartender who clears your glass without interrupting your conversation, who somehow keeps everything flowing without you even noticing. That rare kind of presence that makes a place feel comfortable, which makes it easy to forgive him for being a Leafs fan.

As I drank my beer, familiar faces began to walk in. They gave me small nods—they knew I needed space.

And then Peter walked in.

Peter came straight over to me and pulled me into a hug. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said. “We all feel it here.”

I could hear it in his voice. The weight of missing Shawn wasn’t just mine—it lived in this place, in these people. Tears filled my eyes, but I held them back.

If you don’t have a place like this in your neighborhood, I promise you that there’s one out there. You just have to find it. A place where no one judges you, where you don’t have to pretend to be fine when you’re not. A place where the people become your family-away-from-family. 

Broadway’s is that place. 

From the wooden tables and the high-top chairs, to the TVs playing the games, to the endless debates between Leafs fans and Sens fans about which teams will be going to the playoffs—to the annual NHL and NFL pools and their results. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel like you belong. And then, of course, there’s the food.

I ordered Shawn’s favorite—their Caesar salad with a vinaigrette dressing instead of creamy. But the real secret? He always asked for the lettuce to be at room temperature. They knew. They always knew. They’d warm it in the microwave for 15 seconds before tossing it with the dressing and grilled chicken, making it perfect.

Then my Zach texted me, and like all teenage boys, he’s starving.  I knew exactly what to grab him.  For him, it was always the candied bacon burger with sweet potato fries and aioli sauce—the best burger I’ve ever had at a pub, hands down. Shawn and I used to get this same meal, and now, here was Zach, loving some of the old favorites.

Of course, I had to order the buffalo chicken dip—not with chips—never with chips—but with mini naan because I’m a scooper, not a dipper.

Shawn and I used to argue about that all the time. “It’s called a dip for a reason,” he’d say, shaking his head while I loaded up my naan with as much as it could hold. But scooping just makes sense. More flavor in every bite. He never understood why I did it, and I never understood how he didn’t.

Sitting there, eating the same food, talking about the same things, surrounded by the same people… it was the first time in two months that I’d done something we used to do together. And for the first time, I felt like maybe—just maybe—I could start to do these things again, but in a different way. I thought I would never be able to walk into Broadway’s again, but there was something bittersweet about finding comfort in the familiar. I had been so afraid to revisit the places we loved, to relive those memories without him. But that day at Broadway’s, I realized I didn’t have to avoid them.

Because he was still there.

In the laughter at the bar. In the nods of understanding. In the cold beer and extra lime. In the familiar comfort of a meal we both loved.

And as much as I wanted him there in front of me—for a real hug, a real smile—I knew I wasn’t alone. I felt him with me.

For today…it was enough.