We were meant to be celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary—matching red shirts, a home-cooked dinner, and a cake from that beautiful bakery my mom always said was “a bit much, but worth it.” I snapped a photo just before we sat down, capturing a moment that seemed full of joy. At first glance, everything looked perfect. But I noticed something subtle: my mom’s fingers fidgeted with her necklace, and her smile, while present, didn’t quite reach her eyes. My dad, ever the storyteller, was in full form—laughing and entertaining. She, however, was quieter than usual.
Later that evening, while helping her with the dishes, I gently asked if everything was okay. She hesitated, then quietly said, “He’s a good man. Just… not the same man I married.” Her words stayed with me. I remembered the times she brushed off small frustrations, carried more than her share, and always made room for patience.
Then she added something I’ll never forget: “Promise me, if it ever starts to feel that way… don’t wait forty years to say something.” I nodded, a quiet agreement between us, before we were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. Dad had gone out for what he called a “quick walk,” but now returned with a small, crumpled paper bag. He looked unusually nervous.
Clearing his throat, he said, “I was going to wait till dessert, but… I think I’ll do it now.” He placed the bag on the counter and continued, “I stopped by Marco’s Jewelry—next to that bakery you love—and picked something up for you.”
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