bookstore dates, and long calls that stretched past midnight.
One night, as we sat in his tiny apartment sharing takeout on the floor, I finally told him everything. From the way Peter used to laugh at my insecurities to the moment my face hit the wedding cake.
He just reached out and gently took my hand, held it in his like it was something precious.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever cared for me this way before,” I said quietly.
He looked back at me and smiled. “Then they didn’t deserve to have you.”
Today, we celebrated our ten year wedding anniversary.
Now we live in a small house with a yellow door. We plant tomatoes every spring, even though neither of us is particularly good at gardening.
We watch old movies on rainy nights, curled up under the same blanket. He still works in mental health and says helping people heal is the only thing that ever felt like a calling.
Sometimes, when I’m washing dishes, he’ll come up behind me, wrap his arms around my waist, kiss the back of my neck, and whisper, “You still look better than that cake.”
And every time, I laugh because I know now what love really looks like.
