A gift page made with love
Two people who chose each other once and have kept choosing every single morning since.
Ten years. Three homes. One dog. Countless dinners at that corner table. A thousand mornings that started with coffee and whatever was in the news and you, always you, across from me making everything feel manageable. I did not fully understand what I was signing up for on our wedding day. I understood it about three weeks in. And every year since, the understanding has only deepened. Happy anniversary, Elena.
Every chapter shines brighter with you
Your brother's speech made three rows of people cry simultaneously. The photographer caught it. We have framed it. Not the speech — the photograph of the crying. It is a perfect document of that afternoon.
We painted every room twice because we kept changing our minds. The kitchen was blue for eleven days. We still argue about whether that was a mistake. I still say it was not.
The restaurant where we had our third date. We have been going back every anniversary since. They know us by name now. Last year they had a reservation card with a little gold ten on it. I kept it.
Every photo tells a story
The qualities that made this journey last
The patience you have shown, consistently, for ten years of my particular brand of chaos
How you still reach for my hand in the dark when something is loud on the television
The fact that you remember the names of everyone I have ever mentioned, even once
That you have made every house we have lived in feel immediately and completely like home
Here is to ten more. And then ten after that. I will be at the corner table.