I live with my ex-husband, and without my permission, he changed our porch light to green. When I asked him why, he said it was because of his father. He didn’t elaborate.
Why? Does anyone know the meaning of a green porch light? That question had been circling in my head for days.
My name’s Meridith, and yes, I’m still living with my ex-husband, Darion. We split up two years ago, but for reasons that seem more embarrassing with each retelling — mostly financial ones — we kept the house and, well, we kept sharing it. We lived in separate bedrooms and acted more like awkward roommates than ex-spouses.
One evening, as I pulled into the driveway after a miserable day at work, I noticed that the white porch light we’d always had was now an eerie, almost neon green. It was jarring against the beige siding. I nearly tripped over my own feet staring up at it.
I stormed inside, my purse nearly sliding off my shoulder, and confronted Darion right as he was pouring himself a glass of water. “Why is the porch light green?” I demanded, more sharply than I meant to. He looked up, his eyes tired but calm.
“It’s for my father,” he said softly. That’s all he offered. And he walked away as if that was explanation enough.
But it wasn’t. We barely talked about his father. I knew he’d been in the military and passed away before Darion and I even met.
But we’d never really discussed him, and suddenly this cryptic gesture was lighting up our house — literally. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept picturing that green light casting a weird glow over the lawn, like it was some kind of secret signal.
I asked my friend Renata the next morning at our usual coffee spot. She tapped her phone, looked up at me wide-eyed, and said, “Meridith, a green porch light can mean a show of support for veterans. Maybe it’s about that?”
That struck me, but I felt there had to be more.
When I got home that night, I found Darion sitting on the porch steps, staring at the green light like it might answer every question he never asked. I sat next to him. For a long time, neither of us said a word.
The summer air smelled like cut grass and honeysuckle, and even the cicadas seemed to quiet down around us. Finally, I asked, “Is it about your dad’s military service?”
He nodded slowly. His eyes were glossy.
“It’s more than that,” he whispered. “I found out recently he didn’t die of natural causes. He took his own life, Meridith.
And I never knew. My mom told me last week. The green light… it’s for him, but also for all the other veterans who are struggling.
I just needed… something. A reminder.”
His confession cracked something inside me. I reached for his hand, surprised he didn’t pull away.
We sat like that until the mosquitoes chased us indoors. In the days that followed, I saw Darion in a way I hadn’t for years. He was quieter, but also more intentional.
He started leaving sticky notes on the fridge with reminders: “Eat breakfast.” “Don’t skip your walk.” I realized he’d probably always been like this, attentive in ways I never appreciated. I started to remember why I’d fallen in love with him all those years ago. One evening, I came home to find him cooking dinner.
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