“Happy anniversary,” I say quietly.
She smiles, wide and sleepy, and reaches for me without opening her eyes. Her hand finds my chest like it knows exactly where I am.
“Already?” she asks with a grin that tells me she knows exactly what today is and what it means to us.
“Already,” I confirm.
She opens her eyes then, and something in me steadies the way it always does when she looks at me like that. Like I’m real. Like I’m hers.
She has no idea what I’ve planned.
The thought almost makes me laugh.
The day unfolds slowly. I insisted on no meetings, no calls, no interruptions. The world can survive without me for twenty-four hours. I learned that lesson the hard way.
Lucy spends the morning checking in with her mother, who is stronger now, not healed, not untouched by everything she’s endured, but present. Engaged. Laughing again. Watching her daughters with pride instead of fear.
I watch Lucy on the phone from across the room, the way she leans against the counter, one foot tucked behind the other, fingers worrying at her sleeve while she listens.
This is who she is when she loves.
Fully. Fiercely. Without reserve.
It humbles me every time.
By late afternoon, I’m restless. Not anxious, but... excited. Vulnerable. The kind of anticipation that has nothing to do with outcomes and everything to do with meaning.
I walk into our bedroom and see Lucy stepping into the dress I hoped she’d choose. The one that moves when she walks, that reminds me of Paris and laughter and the quiet moment in the car when everything changed.
I keep my expression neutral. Barely.
“You look beautiful,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “You always say that.”
“Because you always are.”
She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “You’re being weird.”
“Impossible,” I reply. “This is my natural charm.”
She laughs, shaking her head,
“Can you help me with the zipper?” she asks lightly. “It’s… snug.”
I move behind her, fingers finding the familiar line of the dress. I tug gently.
It doesn’t move.
I frown. “That’s strange.”
She turns then, slowly, guiding my hands away from the zipper and down, just enough.
Enough to feel it.
Enough to understand.
Her voice is soft when she says it.
