Steve Harvey asked Sarah a simple question. What’s something you wish you could do one more time? It was just a casual audience interaction question, nothing heavy. Sarah smiled sadly. Talk to my husband, she said quietly. He passed away 2 years ago. I’d give anything to hear his voice one more time. The audience made a collective awe sound.
Steve nodded sympathetically. He’d heard stories like this before. Grief was universal. But then Steve did something that confused everyone. He looked directly at the camera and said, “Sarah, I need you to turn around and look at the big screen.” Sarah turned. The screen flickered to life. And suddenly, impossibly, her husband’s face appeared, alive, moving, speaking.
“Hi, baby,” the video said. “If you’re watching this, you made it to Family Feud.” Sarah’s legs gave out. Steve caught her. and the studio realized they weren’t watching a game show anymore. They were witnessing a miracle. It was Tuesday, April 9th, 2024 at the Family Feud Studio in Atlanta. The Martinez family from Phoenix, Arizona was competing against the Thompson family from Dallas.
It had been a good game so far. Lots of laughter, the usual banter. Sarah Martinez stood at the end of her family’s line, a 41-year-old elementary school teacher with kind eyes and a smile that didn’t quite reach those eyes. Anyone paying close attention would notice that her smile had a quality of performance to it, like she’d learned how to look happy without actually feeling it.
Steve was in the middle of his audience interaction segment, moving through the families, asking light questions, finding moments of connection. When he reached Sarah, something made him pause. Maybe it was the way she held herself like someone trying very hard to be okay. Maybe it was the wedding ring she still wore, turning it absently with her thumb.
Whatever it was, Steve’s instincts told him there was a story here. Sarah, Steve said warmly. Tell me about yourself. What do you do? I teach third grade, Sarah said. Her voice was soft but steady. I’ve been teaching for 16 years. Third grade, Steve repeated. That’s a special age. They still think you’re magic. The audience laughed.
Sarah’s smile got a little more genuine. What else? You married? The question hung in the air for just a moment too long. Sarah’s smile faltered. I was, she said. My husband David passed away two years ago. The audience’s energy shifted immediately. That collective intake of breath that happens when joy bumps into grief.
Steve’s expression softened. I’m sorry to hear that, sweetheart. I really am. Sarah nodded, grateful. She was about to say something polite, something to move the conversation along when Steve asked the question that changed everything. If you could do anything one more time, what would it be? Sarah didn’t hesitate.
The answer came from somewhere deep and honest. Talk to my husband. Just one more conversation. I’d give anything to hear his voice one more time. Steve was quiet for a moment, his usual quick responses paused by the weight of her grief. Then he did something strange. He glanced at his producers offstage.
One of them nodded. Steve turned back to Sarah and his expression had changed. There was something in his eyes now. Knowledge, purpose, maybe a little fear. Sarah, Steve said carefully. I need you to do something for me. I need you to turn around and look at the big screen. Sarah looked confused. The audience looked confused.
Even the other contestants were exchanging glances. The big screen was for survey answers, for gameplay. Why would she need to look at it now? But Sarah turned. The massive screen behind the family feud podium flickered once, twice, then came to life with an image that made Sarah’s heart stop. It was David.
Her David sitting in what looked like a hospital room, wearing a blue gown, looking tired, but very much alive, very much real, very much speaking. Hi, baby. David’s voice came through the speakers. If you’re watching this, you made it to Family Feud. Sarah made a sound that wasn’t quite a word. Her hand went to her mouth. Her body began to shake.
Steve moved closer to her, ready to catch her because he could see what was happening. Her knees were giving out. I know this is probably a shock, David continued on the screen. His voice was weak, but warm with that slight rasp he got when he was tired. And I’m sorry if this upsets you, but I had to do this.
I had to find a way to be there for your big day. Sarah was crying now, hard, gasping sobs that came from somewhere primal. The audience was crying, too. The other contestants were frozen, watching something sacred unfold. Steve had his arm around Sarah, holding her up, his own eyes glistening. You’ve applied to this show 18 times, David said.
And even on video, even recorded two years ago, there was a smile in his voice. 18 times. You know, I used to tease you about it. about how you love Steve Harvey more than you loved me.” He paused and his expression got more serious. But I knew what it really was. It wasn’t about Steve. It wasn’t even about the show. It was about joy.
You needed something to look forward to. Something bright in a world that felt dark. The video was clearly recorded in a hospital room. Medical equipment was visible in the background. David’s skin had a palar to it that spoke of serious illness, but his eyes were alert, focused, full of love and determination. “I’m recording this 3 days after my heart attack,” David said.
“The doctors say I’m going to be okay. They say I’ll make a full recovery, but I don’t believe them, Sarah. I can feel it. Something’s wrong. Something’s ending. And if I’m right, if this is it, I need you to know some things.” Sarah had collapsed into the chair Steve had quickly brought over.
She was watching the screen like it was the only thing in the universe. Her whole family had gathered around her now, supporting her, crying with her. First, David said, “You are the love of my life. 15 years of marriage, and I never got tired of coming home to you. Never got tired of your terrible cooking.” He smiled, and it was so quintessentially David, that self-deprecating humor he used to leaven heavy moments.
never got tired of the way you sing off key in the shower or the way you steal the covers or the way you cry at every Disney movie, even the ones you’ve seen a hundred times. The audience was completely silent except for the sound of sniffling. Steve had stopped trying to hide his tears.
He was just letting them fall. Second, David continued, “I need you to know that you’re going to be okay without me. You’re strong, stronger than you think. You’re going to wake up every day and think you can’t do it, but you will. You’ll get out of bed. You’ll go to work. You’ll take care of those kids in your classroom. You’ll live.
And eventually, maybe not for a long time, but eventually you’ll be happy again. Sarah was shaking her head as if arguing with him through time. “No,” she whispered. “No, I can’t.” “Yes, you can,” David said as if he could hear her. “You have to because the third thing I need you to know is that I’m not really gone.
I’m in every sunset you watch. I’m in every stupid joke you hear that makes you laugh against your will. I’m in that coffee shop we loved in that park where we got engaged in every memory we made together. I’m not gone, baby. I just changed form. The video showed David taking a breath, gathering strength. And the fourth thing, the most important thing, if you’re watching this on Family Feud, it means you finally made it.
You finally got your dream and I’m still cheering for you. I’m still your biggest fan. So play the game, Sarah. Have fun. Laugh. Win or lose, doesn’t matter. Just let yourself be happy for an hour. You deserve it. David looked directly into the camera directly at Sarah across two years in an impossible distance.
I love you. I loved you the day I met you. I loved you the day I married you. I love you now. and I’ll love you forever. Now go win some money.” He smiled one more time. That smile that Sarah had fallen in love with 17 years ago. Steve Harvey, take care of my girl. The screen went black. For a long moment, nobody moved.
The silence in the studio was absolute. Then Sarah stood up, walked over to the screen, and placed her hand on it as if she could touch him through the glass. “I love you, too,” she whispered. I love you so much. Steve walked over to her. Sarah, I need to tell you something. His voice was thick with emotion. Your husband sent this video to us 2 years ago.
He sent it with a letter. He asked us to get you on the show and he asked us to play this video when you got here. We’ve been waiting for you. We pulled some strings. We made sure you got selected. Sarah turned to look at him confused through her tears. He did what? He planned this? Steve said before he died, he made sure you’d get your dream.
Even if he couldn’t be here to see it, he made sure it happened. Sarah covered her face with her hands and just wept. Not sad weeping. Something more complicated. Grief and love and gratitude and pain all mixed together. Her family gathered around her. The audience was standing now applauding through their tears, not for entertainment, but in recognition of something profound.
Steve let the moment breathe. He didn’t rush it. This wasn’t about the show anymore. This wasn’t about television. This was about a widow getting to hear her husband’s voice one more time. This was about love that transcends death. This was about the lengths we go to for the people we love.
When Sarah finally composed herself enough to speak, she looked at Steve and said, “He knew. He knew he was going to die.” Steve nodded. The doctors told him he’d be fine, but he knew. And he used what time he had to make sure he’d be taken care of, even 2 years later. What happened next was unusual, even for family feud.
Steve asked the Thompson family if they’d mind postponing the game. They immediately agreed. Some things are more important than competition. Steve brought Sarah’s entire family to the center of the stage and just talked with them about David, about love, about grief, about healing. Sarah’s daughter, Emily, who was 15 and had been trying so hard to be strong, finally broke down.
“I miss him so much,” she sobbed. “Every day I miss him.” “Tell me about your dad,” Steve said gently. And Emily did. She talked about how her father did silly voices when reading bedtime stories. How he never missed a soccer game, even when he was exhausted from work. How he taught her to ride a bike, to swim, to believe in herself.
Sarah’s son, Michael, who was 12, shared his memories, too. The fishing trips, the terrible dad jokes, the way David always made him feel like he could do anything. The studio wasn’t just watching anymore. They were participating. People in the audience were sharing their own loss stories, their own grief. It became a collective healing session right there on the family feud stage.
Steve looked at Sarah. Are you ready to play or do you need more time? Sarah wiped her eyes and smiled. A real smile this time. The first genuine smile she had managed in 2 years. He told me to play. He told me to have fun. So that’s what I’m going to do. And she did. Sarah and her family played fast money. They laughed.
They joked. They were terrible at some answers and brilliant at others. Sarah kept looking at the screen where David’s face had been. And every time she did, Steve saw her draw strength from it. They won. Not the grand prize, but enough. $10,000. Enough to take Emily on that college tour she’d been worried about affording.
Enough to fix the car that kept breaking down. Enough to breathe a little easier. But Steve wasn’t done. Sarah, I want you to know that your husband’s letter said something else. He set up a small fund with the life insurance money. He asked us to match it and create a scholarship for kids who lost parents, kids who need help getting through school while dealing with grief.
We’re going to call it the David Martinez Memorial Scholarship. Sarah couldn’t speak. She just nodded, crying again, but this time the tears had gratitude mixed in with the grief. The episode aired 3 weeks later and became the most watched Family Feud episode in history. Over 80 million people watched the clip online in the first week.
But the responses weren’t just about the tears or the drama. They were about connection. Thousands of widows and widowers wrote to the show. They shared their stories. They said seeing Sarah receive David’s message gave them permission to still talk to their deceased partners, to still say, “I love you,” out loud, to believe that love doesn’t end.
Grief counselors reported an uptick in people seeking help, saying that seeing Sarah’s pain validated their own, men especially reached out, widowers who’d been taught to be strong and move on, finally allowed themselves to grieve. Six months later, Steve had Sarah back on his talk show. She looked different, lighter. There was still sadness in her eyes.
There always would be. But there was something else now, too. Peace. Maybe even hope. “How are you doing?” Steve asked. Sarah thought about it. “I’m okay. Some days are harder than others, but David was right. I woke up every day thinking I couldn’t do it, and every day I did, and eventually the days between the really hard moments got longer.
Do you still talk to him?” Steve asked gently. Sarah smiled. “Every day I tell him about the kids, about my students, about the funny things that happen. And sometimes I swear I can hear him laughing.” Steve nodded. “What would David think about all of this? The scholarship, the response, everything. He’d make a joke about being famous.
” Sarah said he’d say something like, “Finally, my wife loves me as much as she loves Steve Harvey.” The audience laughed, but then he’d probably cry. He had a huge heart. He’d be overwhelmed that his love story touched so many people. It wasn’t just a love story, Steve said. It was a lesson about how we love people, about how we prepare for the worst while hoping for the best, about how we can still take care of people even after we’re gone.
The David Martinez Memorial Scholarship funded 20 students in its first year. kids who’d lost parents and were struggling to afford college while dealing with grief. At the award ceremony, Sarah met each recipient. She told them David’s story. She told them that grief and hope can coexist, that you can miss someone and still build a beautiful life.
One recipient, a girl named Maya who’d lost her mother to cancer, said something that stayed with Sarah. Your husband’s video taught me that my mom’s love didn’t die with her. It’s still here. I just have to learn to feel it differently. Sarah still teaches third grade. She still wears her wedding ring. She still applies the lessons David taught her about finding joy in small things. But now she has something else.
She has purpose. She speaks at grief support groups. She helps other widows navigate those first impossible years. She’s become an advocate for having difficult conversations about death and dying while there’s still time. And she keeps David’s video on her phone. Not to watch every day. That would be too painful. But to know it’s there.
To know that he loved her enough to think of her in his darkest moment. To know that love really does transcend death. Steve Harvey keeps a copy of David’s letter in his office. It reminds him that his platform isn’t just about entertainment. It’s about connection, about humanity, about the moments that change people.
The letter ends with a line that Steve has never shared publicly, but that he thinks about often. David wrote, “We spend so much time worrying about how we’ll be remembered. But maybe the real question is, how did we make people feel loved while we were here? If I did that for Sarah, if she knows in her bones that she was loved completely, then my life meant something.” Sarah knows.
The world knows. And every person who watched that video, who cried along with her, who reached out to their own loved ones afterward to say, “I love you one more time.” They know, too. All because a dying man took 6 minutes to record a message. All because Steve Harvey kept a promise.
All because love is patient, love is kind, and love never dies. It just changes form. The Family Feud stage has seen countless moments of joy, surprise, and laughter. But on April 9th, 2024, it witnessed something rarer. It witnessed proof that death is not the end of love. That grief and healing can coexist. That sometimes the most beautiful gift you can give someone is permission to be happy again.
Sarah plays the game of life now like David told her to. with joy, with laughter, with an open heart. She wins some days and loses others, but she’s playing. And somewhere, somehow, David is still cheering for her because that’s what love does. It cheers. It endures. It waits. It transforms. It never ever gives
