We gathered for my parents’ 40th anniversary, all in red shirts, the house warm with food and laughter.
I snapped a photo of them smiling, but my mom’s eyes looked different—her smile didn’t fully reach.
Later, while cleaning up, I quietly asked if she was okay. She hesitated before admitting, “He’s a good man…
just not always the same man I married.” She explained how love can fade, not suddenly, but through small,
unspoken hurts that build distance. Then she looked at me and said, “Promise me you won’t wait decades to speak up if something feels wrong.”
Soon after, my dad came in from a walk holding a small bag. He had overheard. With tears in his eyes, he offered her a simple
gold bracelet and admitted he hadn’t always been the partner she deserved. The gift wasn’t what mattered—it was his promise to try harder.
The next morning, Mom announced she was finally signing up for the pottery class she’d always wanted. To everyone’s surprise, Dad asked if he could join her.
She laughed and said he could try. It wasn’t grand, but it was real. Love, I realized, is choosing each other—again and again.
