When I pictured celebrating forty years of marriage with Denise, I always imagined something quiet, meaningful, and just for the two of us. After decades of raising four children, doting on six grandchildren, and working through demanding careers, we had finally earned the right to put ourselves first. Our marriage had weathered storms and celebrated triumphs, but we rarely took time to simply be together without the noise of responsibility. Retirement finally gave us that chance, and for our anniversary, we planned the trip of a lifetime—Oregon’s rugged coastline, an inn overlooking the Pacific, mornings with coffee and ocean air, and evenings by the fire in silence. It wasn’t about extravagance; it was about reclaiming “us.”
We booked months in advance, and Denise was giddy every time she brought it up. “Can you imagine the sunsets, Henry?” she’d ask, her eyes sparkling with the same joy I saw the day we married. For once, it felt like the world was giving us permission to just be husband and wife, not mom, dad, Nana, or Papa.
Then our youngest daughter, Amanda, found out…
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