On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note tucked beneath the sugar bowl.

**No errands after work. Come straight home. —M**

She smiled, folded it into her pocket, and texted Marcus anyway.

**Does picking up dessert count as an errand?**

His reply came before she reached the train platform.

**Only if you pick the wrong dessert.**

They had considered a weekend in Chicago, but the furnace repair in January had reduced their travel budget to a quiet evening at home in their Maryland townhouse. Neither of them minded much. Their first date had been in a noisy restaurant where they could barely hear each other. Ten years later, quiet felt like a luxury.

Marcus left work early and stopped at the neighborhood market for salmon, asparagus, and the lemon cookies Elena always pretended not to like. At home, he cleared the dining table of mail and laptop chargers, then searched three drawers before finding the blue candles from their wedding reception.

Elena arrived carrying a small bakery box and a grocery-store bouquet of yellow tulips. “I know,” she said, seeing the bags on the counter. “No errands.”

“I’ll allow it.”

She changed clothes, put on the playlist they had made for a road trip through Virginia, and joined him in the kitchen. Marcus handled the salmon while Elena trimmed the asparagus and corrected his overly ambitious plan for a cream sauce. When the smoke alarm chirped, she waved a dish towel beneath it as he rescued dinner from the oven.

They ate by candlelight, laughing over the slightly burned edges. Elena brought out the bakery box: a miniature version of their wedding cake, white frosting with raspberry filling.

Marcus raised his glass. “To ten years.”

Elena touched her glass to his. “And to finally replacing that smoke alarm.”

After dessert, they carried their plates to the sink together. Marcus washed; Elena dried. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows. Inside, their song began playing, and Elena set down the towel.

“Dance with me.”

Marcus turned off the faucet and took her hand.


On Thursday morning, Elena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and the old cardboard box between them.

“You went into the closet,” she said.

“I risked my life.”

The closet was packed with winter coats, tax folders, and the remains of several abandoned hobbies. Inside the box were photographs from the year they met: Elena in a yellow raincoat outside a bookstore in Portland, Marcus holding two concert tickets, both of them younger and pretending not to be cold.

Friday would mark fifteen years since their first date. They had considered going downtown, but the restaurant Marcus called was booked, and Elena admitted she was tired of celebrations that required parking reservations.

“Let’s stay home,” she said. “But let’s make it feel intentional.”

They divided the work. Marcus ordered ingredients for the mushroom risotto they had eaten on that first date, while Elena made a playlist of songs from that year. After work on Friday, she stopped at a neighborhood bakery for a small chocolate cake. Marcus left the office early, cleared the dining table of mail, and found the blue cloth napkins they used only when company came.

At six, they cooked together. Elena chopped shallots while Marcus warmed the broth. He stirred the rice; she added wine and corrected him when he tried to pour too much.

“That’s for drinking,” she said, taking the bottle.

The risotto was slightly too salty, and the cake leaned to one side. Neither mattered. They turned off their phones, lit two candles, and ate while the playlist moved through songs they had nearly forgotten.

Later, they carried the cardboard box to the couch and sorted the photographs into piles. Marcus found the concert tickets, creased but readable. Elena found a receipt from the bookstore café where they had talked until closing.

“We kept everything,” he said.

“Not everything,” she replied, resting her feet in his lap. “Just enough.”

Outside, traffic passed on the wet street. Inside, Marcus raised his glass, and Elena met it with hers.

“To fifteen years,” he said.

“And to not going downtown,” she added.


Maya got home just after six, carrying a paper bag from the Italian bakery near her office. Daniel was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, frowning at a pot of sauce.

“Don’t look in the bag,” she warned.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were absolutely going to.”

It was their tenth wedding anniversary, and they had agreed on a quiet evening at home in their townhouse outside Baltimore. No expensive restaurant, no party, no gifts beyond something small. After a decade that had included two job changes, one miscarriage, three apartments, and the recent purchase of their first home, they wanted the night to feel like theirs.

Daniel had planned dinner: fresh pasta, tomato sauce, and the garlic bread Maya loved. She set the table with the blue dishes they had received as wedding gifts, while he drained the pasta and tried not to splash sauce on his shirt. When the smoke alarm chirped because the bread had burned at the edges, Maya opened the back door and waved a dish towel beneath it.

“Very romantic,” she said.

“Authentic,” Daniel replied.

They ate by candlelight anyway, laughing when the candles revealed how unevenly they had painted the dining room wall. Afterward, Maya opened the bakery bag and brought out two slices of lemon cake—the same flavor they had served at their wedding.

Daniel disappeared upstairs and returned with a small wooden box. Inside were ticket stubs, old photographs, and notes they had left each other over the years. Maya added the receipt from the bakery, writing the date across the back.

Then she handed him her gift: a framed photograph of their new house, taken on the morning they received the keys.

They carried their cake to the porch and sat beneath a blanket as traffic murmured beyond the row of houses. Daniel rested his hand over hers.

“Ten years,” he said.

Maya squeezed his fingers. “And we finally own a dishwasher.”

They smiled, listening to it run through the kitchen window, content with the ordinary life they had built together.


Maya stood at the kitchen counter, slicing mushrooms while rain tapped against the windows of their apartment in Portland. Across the room, her husband, Daniel, crouched beside the record player, trying to coax sound from the left speaker.

“Ten years,” Maya said. “And we’re celebrating with faulty electronics.”

Daniel glanced up. “The faulty electronics have sentimental value.”

So did the record. They had bought it on their first date at a used music shop, before sharing a plate of fries because neither had much money. Tonight marked ten years since that date—not their wedding anniversary, but the beginning of everything.

They had considered going out, but Maya had spent the week managing a difficult project, and Daniel had been covering extra shifts at the hospital. A quiet evening felt less like a compromise than a relief.

Maya stirred the mushrooms into risotto while Daniel switched the speaker wires. A burst of piano filled the room, startling them both.

“There,” he said, standing with a triumphant grin.

“You’re useful after all.”

He set the table, finding the cloth napkins they normally saved for guests. Maya lit two candles, then turned off the harsh overhead light. Together they carried their bowls to the small dining table by the window.

The risotto was slightly undercooked. Daniel admitted he had forgotten to chill the wine. Neither cared.

After dinner, Maya brought out an envelope. Inside was a printed photograph of them on their first date, young and damp from the rain, holding the record between them.

Daniel studied it, then reached into his pocket. His gift was a brass key on a plain ring.

“For the studio downstairs,” he explained. He had rented the tiny workspace so Maya could finally start painting again.

She covered her mouth, then laughed softly. “I only got you a photograph.”

“You remembered the date,” he said. “That’s enough.”

Maya put the record on again. Daniel cleared the dishes, and she dried them beside him. Later, they danced barefoot in the kitchen, moving carefully around the table as rain blurred the city lights.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note taped to the coffeemaker.

“Dinner at home,” it read in Marcus’s careful handwriting. “No phones. No errands. Wear something comfortable.”

She smiled and added a line beneath his: “Only if you let me handle dessert.”

They lived in a narrow brick townhouse outside Baltimore, where traffic hummed beyond the maple trees and their elderly radiator clicked whenever the heat came on. Both had taken the afternoon off. Marcus stopped at the neighborhood market for salmon, asparagus, and the sourdough Elena liked. Elena picked up a small chocolate cake from the bakery where they had ordered their wedding cupcakes ten years earlier.

By six, rain streaked the kitchen windows. Marcus seasoned the fish while Elena trimmed the asparagus and argued that his playlist contained too much jazz.

“It’s our anniversary,” she said. “Not a hotel lobby.”

He handed her his phone. “Then fix it.”

She added the song they had danced to at their wedding, along with several louder songs from road trips they had taken before mortgages and demanding jobs. When the smoke alarm chirped at an over-browned loaf, they opened the back door and laughed while waving dish towels beneath it.

They ate at the small dining table instead of in front of the television. Marcus poured sparkling water into their wedding glasses, one of which had a chip near the rim. Elena brought out an envelope. Inside was a printed photograph of the townhouse on the day they bought it, both of them standing on the steps with paint samples in their hands.

Marcus gave her a slim notebook. On the first page, he had written a list of places they had promised to visit.

“Not tonight,” he said. “Tonight we stay here.”

After dinner, they washed the dishes together. Elena scrubbed; Marcus dried. Then they carried the cake to the living room, turned off their phones, and sat by the window listening to the rain.

Nothing about the evening was grand. That, they agreed, was exactly right.


Maya set two grocery bags on the kitchen counter and called, “I found the good olives.”

From the living room, Daniel answered, “Then I’ll forgive you for being late.”

She smiled as he appeared in the doorway, holding a strand of white lights and looking mildly defeated. Ten years earlier, on their first date, they had eaten olives, bread, and cheese at a tiny restaurant in Chicago after discovering neither of them could afford the entrées. Tonight was the anniversary of that date—not their wedding—and they had agreed to celebrate quietly at home.

Their house in Ohio was unusually still. Daniel had taken their dog on a long walk, silenced both phones, and moved the laundry basket out of sight. Maya had stopped at the bakery after work and bought the closest thing she could find to the lemon tart they had shared that night.

Together, they transformed the dining room. Daniel looped the lights around the window while Maya spread a blue tablecloth across the table. When one corner kept sliding off, he held it in place and she secured it with a clothespin.

“Elegant,” he said.

“Practical,” she corrected.

They cooked side by side. Maya chopped tomatoes and garlic while Daniel warmed bread and tried to recreate the restaurant’s pasta from memory. He added too much red pepper. She rescued the sauce with cream. When the smoke alarm chirped, they opened the back door and laughed into the cold November air.

After dinner, Daniel brought out an old envelope. Inside were two faded train tickets from their first date.

“You kept those?” Maya asked.

“You said it was going nowhere,” he reminded her.

“I was wrong.”

She retrieved a small notebook from her bag. On the first page, she had written a list of places they hoped to visit during the next ten years.

They sat close together beneath the crooked lights, eating tart directly from the box. Outside, cars passed on the wet street. Inside, they took turns adding to the list, arguing cheerfully over cities, budgets, and whether Daniel could survive a seven-hour flight.

It was not a grand celebration, but it felt exactly like theirs.


On the morning of their fifteenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note taped to the coffeemaker.

**Dinner at home. No phones. I’ll cook.**

She smiled, then added beneath Marcus’s handwriting:

**You’ll burn something. I’ll help.**

They both worked long hours—Elena at a community health clinic in St. Louis, Marcus managing a hardware store—and recent months had been crowded with bills, family obligations, and hurried meals eaten over the sink. They agreed that their anniversary should be quiet: no expensive restaurant, no party, just an evening that felt like theirs.

After work, Marcus stopped at the neighborhood grocery store for salmon, asparagus, and the lemon cake Elena liked. Meanwhile, Elena drove home and transformed their small dining room. She cleared away unopened mail, spread the blue tablecloth they had received as a wedding gift, and found two candles in the kitchen drawer.

When Marcus arrived, they cooked together. He seasoned the salmon while Elena trimmed the asparagus and corrected his overly ambitious use of garlic. They bumped elbows at the stove, argued briefly about oven temperature, then laughed when the smoke alarm chirped anyway.

While dinner finished, Elena brought out a shoebox filled with old photographs. Marcus chose one from their first apartment: the two of them sitting on the floor beside a secondhand couch, eating pizza from the box.

“We looked exhausted,” he said.

“We were exhausted,” Elena replied. “And broke.”

“We’re still tired.”

“But less broke.”

They ate by candlelight as rain tapped against the windows. Marcus gave Elena a small envelope containing two tickets for a weekend train trip to Chicago—not for that night, but for later, when they could arrange time off. Elena gave him a letter she had written about the ordinary things she loved: his early coffee, his terrible singing, the way he always called her mother on Sundays.

After dessert, they washed dishes together. Then they turned on the song from their wedding and danced slowly in the kitchen, barefoot on the cool tile, while the rain continued outside.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a yellow sticky note on the coffee maker.

**No errands after work. Be home by six. —Marcus**

She smiled, then added beneath it, **Only if you are.**

They lived outside Columbus, Ohio, in a narrow brick townhouse where the kitchen faucet dripped and the dining table doubled as Elena’s office. Money had been tight since Marcus changed jobs, so they had agreed: no restaurant, no gifts, no pretending the budget was bigger than it was.

At lunch, Elena called him. “I’m making the mushroom pasta from our first apartment.”

“The one you burned?”

“The improved version.”

“Good,” Marcus said. “I’ll handle dessert.”

After work, Elena stopped at the grocery store for mushrooms, cream, and a small bunch of daisies. At home, she moved her laptop, spread their least-wrinkled tablecloth across the table, and found two candles in the junk drawer. One was vanilla, the other smelled aggressively like pine, but she lit both.

Marcus arrived at six carrying a paper bag and an old shoebox. While Elena cooked, he washed dishes, grated Parmesan, and told her about a customer who had tried to return a lawn mower without the lawn mower.

When the pasta was ready, Marcus turned off the overhead light. Rain tapped against the windows, and traffic hissed on the wet street outside.

From the shoebox, he pulled photographs, ticket stubs, and the receipt from the diner where they had eaten after getting married at the courthouse.

“You kept that?” Elena asked.

“You said the pancakes were historic.”

After dinner, they sat on the living-room floor and sorted the box into years. Elena labeled envelopes while Marcus read aloud the notes they had written each other during difficult months. Some made them laugh. One made them quiet.

For dessert, Marcus revealed two slices of grocery-store cheesecake, slightly crushed.

Elena raised her fork. “To ten years.”

Marcus touched his fork to hers. “And to staying home.”

The rain continued, the faucet kept dripping, and neither of them hurried to fix it.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note tucked beneath the sugar bowl.

**No gifts. No restaurant. Home by six. —Marcus**

She smiled, then added beneath it: **Only if you buy the good bread.**

They had learned, over ten years, that celebration did not require reservations or polished shoes. Their apartment in Milwaukee had witnessed enough ordinary evenings to make this one meaningful: late dinners after double shifts, arguments whispered so they wouldn’t wake the neighbors, and Sunday mornings when they drank coffee beside the radiator.

At five forty-five, Marcus came through the door carrying a paper bag and shaking rain from his jacket.

“The bakery was nearly sold out,” he said, producing a slightly crushed loaf.

Elena inspected it. “Acceptable.”

She had already cleared the dining table of mail and folded laundry. A pot of tomato soup simmered on the stove, the same recipe they had eaten on their first date when a snowstorm closed every restaurant near campus.

Marcus sliced the bread while Elena grated cheese. He burned the first sandwiches because he was searching for the playlist from their wedding reception. Elena opened a window, laughing as the smoke alarm chirped.

“You’re ruining the romance,” he said, waving a dish towel overhead.

“I’m saving the building.”

They ate the second batch by candlelight—not for atmosphere, but because the bulb above the table had burned out. Between spoonfuls of soup, they traded memories: the broken air conditioner in their first apartment, the cross-country drive to Wisconsin, the afternoon they signed their mortgage papers and sat in the car afterward, terrified.

Then Elena brought out a small wooden box. Inside were ticket stubs, photographs, and notes collected over the years. Marcus added that morning’s message.

“We’re getting predictable,” he said.

“No,” Elena replied, taking his hand. “We’re getting good at knowing what matters.”

Outside, rain tapped the windows. Marcus turned up their wedding song, and together they pushed back the chairs and danced in the narrow space between the table and the stove.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note propped against the coffee maker.

**No gifts. No restaurant. Home by six. —Marcus**

She smiled, then added beneath it, **Agreed. But I’m choosing dessert.**

They had celebrated earlier anniversaries with crowded restaurants, weekend trips, and once, disastrously, a hot-air balloon ride outside Albuquerque. This year, after months of overtime and helping Marcus’s father recover from surgery, they wanted quiet.

Marcus left his job at the city library early and stopped at a neighborhood market. He chose salmon, asparagus, and a loaf of sourdough, checking each item against the recipe on his phone. At home, he cleared unopened mail from the dining table and found the blue cloth napkins they had received as a wedding gift.

Across town, Elena finished a client meeting at the architecture firm, then drove to the bakery that had made their wedding cake. It no longer offered the lemon-raspberry flavor they remembered, so she bought two lemon tarts and a small box of raspberries. On impulse, she also picked up ten plain white candles.

By six, rain tapped against the windows of their Ohio townhouse. Elena arrived to find Marcus in the kitchen, frowning at a pan.

“The salmon is stuck,” he announced.

“I can save it,” she said, setting down the bakery box.

“You said that about the balloon.”

Together, they loosened the fillets, laughing when one broke in half. Elena roasted the asparagus while Marcus sliced bread and opened a bottle of wine they had been saving.

After dinner, they carried the tarts into the living room. Marcus lit the candles along the windowsill, and Elena found the playlist from their wedding reception. They danced carefully between the coffee table and the couch.

When the song ended, neither spoke for a moment.

“Ten years,” Marcus said.

Elena rested her forehead against his. “And we finally learned to stay home.”

Outside, cars hissed along the wet street. Inside, they divided the last tart and talked about the next ten years.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note tucked beneath the sugar bowl.

**No gifts. No restaurants. Just us. —Mark**

She smiled, folded it into her pocket, and went upstairs, where Mark was wrestling with a fitted sheet.

“You remembered the rules,” she said.

“I helped write the rules,” he replied. “Also, we’re celebrating tonight with clean sheets. Very luxurious.”

They lived in a small house outside Columbus, Ohio, where October rain tapped steadily against the windows. Both had taken the afternoon off. Their original plan—a picnic at the park where Mark had proposed—was clearly impossible, but neither seemed disappointed.

Elena drove to the grocery store and returned with salmon, potatoes, and the chocolate cake they had served at their wedding. Mark cleared the dining table, found two candles in the junk drawer, and repaired the loose hinge on the old wooden box that held their wedding photographs.

They cooked together, moving carefully around their narrow kitchen. Elena seasoned the salmon while Mark chopped potatoes. When the smoke detector shrieked, Mark waved a dish towel beneath it, and Elena opened the back door, laughing as cold rain blew inside.

After dinner, they carried their plates to the sink but left them there. Mark opened the wooden box, and they sat on the living-room rug, sorting through photographs.

“There’s your uncle dancing with the centerpiece,” Elena said.

“He still denies it.”

They found a picture of themselves leaving the courthouse, younger and thinner, Elena gripping Mark’s hand as if the crowd might pull them apart.

Mark grew quiet. “Ten years,” he said. “It doesn’t feel quiet when I think about everything we’ve done.”

Elena leaned against him. “Quiet isn’t the same as empty.”

Later, she brought out the cake, and he poured two glasses of sparkling cider. They ate by candlelight while rain filled the gutters and cars hissed along the wet street.

Before bed, Mark washed the dishes. Elena dried them and put each one away. Neither called it romantic, but both understood that it was.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a yellow sticky note pressed to the coffee machine.

**Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus**

She smiled, then wrote beneath it, **Too late**, and stuck the note to his lunch container.

They had agreed to keep the evening quiet. Between Marcus’s long shifts at the hospital and Elena’s deadlines at the architecture firm, quiet felt more luxurious than any reservation downtown. Still, each wanted to surprise the other.

Marcus left work early and stopped at a small grocery store near their house in Columbus. He bought fresh pasta, mushrooms, and the chocolate cake Elena always paused to admire in the bakery case. At home, he cleared mail from the dining table and searched for the cloth napkins they had received as a wedding gift.

Meanwhile, Elena picked up a framed photograph from a local print shop. It showed the two of them on their first road trip, standing beside a rain-soaked overlook in Tennessee. Marcus’s hair was plastered to his forehead, and Elena was laughing so hard her eyes were closed.

When she arrived home, she found Marcus frowning at a pot of sauce.

“It separated,” he said.

“It’s rustic,” Elena replied, setting the wrapped frame behind her back.

Then the smoke alarm chirped. Marcus grabbed a dish towel and waved it beneath the detector while Elena moved the pan off the burner and opened a window. They laughed until Marcus had to lean against the counter.

They salvaged the pasta, lit two candles, and exchanged their gifts. Marcus had made a small booklet listing ten ordinary days he remembered clearly: the day they adopted their dog, the night the furnace failed, the Sunday they painted the bedroom twice.

Elena placed the photograph between them.

“I remember being freezing,” Marcus said.

“I remember you giving me your jacket.”

After dinner, they carried cake to the couch. Outside, traffic moved along the wet street. Inside, Elena rested her feet in Marcus’s lap, and together they planned one more ordinary year.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note taped to the coffee maker.

**Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus**

She smiled, then called toward the hallway, “You know I work from home. I can hear you opening every cabinet.”

Marcus appeared carrying a picnic basket they had not used since moving to Ohio. “I’m being mysterious.”

“You’re being loud.”

Their original plan had been to return to the Italian restaurant where Marcus had proposed. But Elena’s mother was recovering from surgery, money was tight, and neither of them wanted to spend the evening driving across Columbus in freezing rain. So they agreed on something quieter: dinner at home, phones turned off, no errands, no television.

After work, Elena cleared the dining table, which had become a landscape of mail and charging cables. She found the blue tablecloth from their wedding shower and ironed it while Marcus made mushroom risotto, carefully stirring the rice the way Elena had taught him. When he reached for the salt, she caught his wrist.

“Taste first,” she said.

He did, then nodded. “Good save.”

Elena baked a small chocolate cake, though the center sank. Marcus filled the hollow with whipped cream and declared it intentional. Together they carried everything into the living room, where they spread the old picnic blanket beside the window.

Outside, rain glazed the street and blurred the neighbors’ porch lights. Inside, they ate from mismatched bowls and opened a bottle of wine they had been saving.

Marcus gave Elena a thin envelope. Inside was a printed photograph of the bus stop where they had first met, both of them sheltering from a summer storm.

“I went back last week,” he said.

Elena handed him her gift: a list titled **Ten Things We Built**, including their home, their routines, and the courage to apologize.

Marcus read it twice.

Later, they washed dishes together, bumping shoulders at the sink. Nothing about the evening was grand, but when Elena turned off the kitchen light, Marcus took her hand, and neither of them felt they had missed anything.


On Friday afternoon, Elena left work early and drove across town to the small Italian market where she and Marcus had shopped when they first moved to Ohio. Their fifteenth wedding anniversary was on Monday, but with work, school pickups, and Marcus’s mother’s physical therapy appointment, Friday was their only quiet evening.

At home, Marcus had already begun clearing the dining table. He stacked unopened mail on the counter, helped their twelve-year-old daughter pack for a sleepover, and changed the bulb in the brass lamp Elena liked to turn on during dinner.

“I thought we agreed not to make a big production,” Elena said, setting down a paper bag filled with pasta, mushrooms, and a bottle of wine.

“This isn’t big,” Marcus replied. “I only cleaned the part of the house we can see.”

They cooked together, as they had in their first apartment. Elena sliced mushrooms while Marcus rolled pasta dough through the machine they rarely used. The first sheet tore down the middle.

“You’re rushing it,” she said.

“You say that every time.”

“And every time, I’m right.”

He laughed and started again, more slowly.

While the sauce simmered, Elena found an old envelope in the kitchen drawer. Inside was the receipt from the diner where Marcus had proposed. He had kept it because the waitress had written, “Good luck!” across the bottom.

After dinner, they carried their glasses to the back porch. The neighborhood was unusually still. Somewhere beyond the fence, a dog barked twice, and a garage door groaned shut.

Marcus handed Elena a small box. Inside was not jewelry but a new key ring, engraved with the address of their first apartment.

Elena smiled, then reached into her sweater pocket. She gave him two tickets to a spring baseball game—the same teams they had watched on their first date.

They sat shoulder to shoulder beneath a blanket, discussing the years ahead: college savings, his possible promotion, her wish to travel west. Nothing was settled, but neither hurried the conversation. When the porch light clicked off automatically, Marcus turned it back on, and Elena poured the last of the wine.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Maya found a note propped against the coffee maker.

**No restaurants. No gifts. Home by six. —Daniel**

She smiled, tucked it into her robe pocket, and started the coffee. Their anniversary had landed on a Thursday, between Daniel’s deadline at the architecture firm and Maya’s parent-teacher conferences. A quiet evening was exactly what they needed.

At lunch, Maya drove to the small Italian market near the school and bought fresh pasta, tomatoes, and a wedge of Parmesan. Meanwhile, Daniel used his break to call their teenage neighbor and arrange for her to walk Otis, their restless beagle. He also stopped at the public library, where he checked out the old movie they had watched on their first date.

They reached their house in Ohio within minutes of each other. Daniel carried groceries inside while Maya cleared mail and work papers from the dining table. When he discovered they had both bought dessert—Maya a lemon tart, Daniel chocolate cupcakes—they agreed this was not a problem requiring a solution.

They cooked together, bumping elbows in the narrow kitchen. Maya made sauce while Daniel rolled pasta dough through the machine they rarely used. The first batch stuck together in a pale, floury lump.

“Very romantic,” Maya said.

“Authentically rustic,” Daniel corrected, and started again.

By seven, rain tapped against the windows. They lit two candles, put their phones in a drawer, and ate at the table instead of in front of the television. They talked about the apartment they had shared after getting married, the broken heater, the neighbors who practiced drums at midnight, and how wealthy they had felt after buying their first couch.

Later, they carried cupcakes to the living room. The movie froze twice, and Otis returned damp and delighted, shaking rain across the rug. Maya fetched a towel while Daniel restarted the DVD.

Nothing went perfectly. That, they agreed, made the evening feel like theirs.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note tucked beneath the sugar bowl.

**No errands after work. Come straight home. —Marcus**

She smiled, then wrote beneath it, **Only if you stay out of the kitchen. —E.**

They lived in a narrow townhouse outside Baltimore, where the windows faced a row of maples and the neighbors’ dogs announced every delivery. Neither wanted a restaurant that year. Marcus had recently started a demanding new job, and Elena’s mother was recovering from surgery. A quiet evening felt less like settling and more like a luxury.

During lunch, Elena ordered a small lemon cake from the bakery where they had bought their wedding cake. Marcus stopped at the grocery store on his way home and chose salmon, asparagus, and a bottle of inexpensive sparkling wine. He also bought tulips, though he hesitated over the price.

At six, they met in the kitchen, each carrying a surprise.

“You were told to stay out,” Elena said, eyeing the grocery bags.

“You were told to come straight home,” Marcus replied, pointing at the bakery box.

They compromised. Marcus cooked while Elena set the table with the blue dishes they usually saved for guests. She found their wedding playlist on an old laptop, and when the first song crackled through the speakers, Marcus laughed.

“Remember how the DJ played the wrong version?”

“You still danced,” she said.

“I was already committed.”

After dinner, they carried the cake to the living room and opened a box of photographs. They took turns choosing one picture from each year: a camping trip ruined by rain, the day they bought the townhouse, a Thanksgiving when the turkey never thawed.

Before midnight, Elena brought out two blank cards.

“Write one thing you want us to do this year,” she said.

Marcus wrote, **Take Sundays off.**

Elena wrote, **Learn to dance properly.**

He stood and offered his hand. Between the couch and coffee table, they began practicing immediately, stepping on each other’s feet and laughing quietly so they wouldn’t wake the neighbors’ baby.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note tucked beneath the coffee maker.

**No errands after work. Come straight home. —M**

She smiled, then wrote beneath it, **Only if you do the same**, and propped the note against Marcus’s travel mug.

They lived in a narrow townhouse outside Baltimore, where quiet evenings were rare. Between Marcus’s job at the hospital, Elena’s evening classes, and their elderly dog’s complicated medication schedule, most dinners happened in shifts.

At lunch, Elena called the Italian restaurant where they’d had their first date, but the earliest reservation was nine-thirty.

“That’s practically tomorrow,” Marcus said when she texted him.

“So we improvise,” she replied.

Marcus stopped at the grocery store after work and bought fresh pasta, tomatoes, and the expensive olives Elena always examined but never purchased. Elena left the community college early, picked up a small chocolate cake, and found a dusty bottle of wine in the back of their pantry.

By six, rain tapped steadily against the kitchen windows. Marcus chopped garlic while Elena rolled basil leaves into tight green bundles and sliced them thin.

“Remember our first apartment?” she asked. “The stove only had one working burner.”

“And the smoke alarm had excellent hearing.”

They laughed, but when the sauce began to burn, Elena grabbed the pan while Marcus opened the windows and waved a dish towel beneath the alarm. Their dog barked from the hallway, offended by the commotion.

Dinner was late. The pasta clumped, and the wine cork crumbled into the bottle. Marcus filtered it through a coffee strainer while Elena lit two candles and turned off the harsh overhead light.

They ate at their small kitchen table, knees touching. Afterward, Marcus brought out an envelope. Inside was a printed confirmation for a weekend cabin they had discussed for years.

Elena reached into her bag and handed him a newly framed photograph from their courthouse wedding.

For a while, neither spoke. Rain softened outside.

“To ten years,” Marcus said.

Elena raised her glass. “And to finally using the good olives.”


By six o’clock, rain had begun tapping against the kitchen windows of their apartment in Portland. Lena stood at the counter, slicing mushrooms, while her husband, Marcus, searched the crowded cabinet for the bottle of wine they had saved.

“It was behind the rice,” Lena said.

“You moved the rice.”

“I organized it.”

Marcus found the bottle and held it up triumphantly. Ten years earlier, on a rainy October evening much like this one, they had met at a friend’s overcrowded housewarming party. Their wedding anniversary was in June, but they still celebrated the day they met. It felt more private, belonging only to them.

They had considered going downtown for dinner, but after a long week—Lena at the elementary school where she taught and Marcus at the hospital where he worked in respiratory therapy—they wanted quiet. They planned to cook mushroom risotto, turn off their phones, and watch the old detective movie they had seen on their first date.

Marcus warmed the broth while Lena stirred onions into butter. When the smoke alarm chirped, he grabbed a dish towel and fanned it, laughing as Lena opened the window.

“Very romantic,” she said.

“I’m recreating our first apartment.”

They worked side by side, trading the wooden spoon and tasting the rice. Marcus added too much pepper; Lena balanced it with Parmesan. Neither mentioned the stack of bills on the desk or the repair their car needed. Those things would still be there tomorrow.

After dinner, Lena brought out a small envelope. Inside was a printed photograph of them from that first party, younger and slightly blurred, standing near a bowl of melting ice.

Marcus studied it, then handed her a folded note. He had written down ten ordinary moments from the past year he wanted to remember: her singing while doing laundry, their Sunday walks, the night they fixed the leaking sink together.

Lena read the list twice.

On the couch, they raised their glasses as the movie began. Outside, traffic hissed along the wet street. Inside, Marcus reached for her hand, and Lena laced her fingers through his.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note taped to the coffeemaker.

**Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus**

She smiled, then called toward the hallway, “You know I can hear you packing dishes into the car.”

Marcus appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding a canvas grocery bag. “Those are unrelated dishes.”

“Of course.”

They had agreed on a quiet evening. No crowded restaurant, no party, no speeches from friends. After a decade of marriage—and two months of overtime at their respective jobs—quiet felt luxurious.

Elena worked from home until four, then shut her laptop and changed into jeans. Marcus returned from the hardware store with a bundle of firewood and discovered that she had already packed blankets, candles, and the old portable speaker.

“You stole my surprise,” he said.

“I improved your logistics.”

Together they drove to a small lakeside park outside Madison, Wisconsin, where they had spent their first anniversary with cheap sandwiches and a borrowed tent. The October air was sharp, and the picnic tables were damp from afternoon rain.

Marcus built a fire in the public grill while Elena spread a waterproof tarp beneath the blankets. When the wind kept blowing out the candles, she wedged them inside two empty jam jars. He warmed tomato soup on a camp stove; she sliced sourdough and toasted it in a skillet.

“This is better than the first time,” Marcus said.

“The first time, you forgot the can opener.”

“You married me anyway.”

They ate beside the lake as the sky darkened. Marcus produced a small envelope containing two tickets for a spring train trip they had discussed for years. Elena handed him a printed confirmation: she had already reserved the hotel.

They stared at each other, then laughed.

Later, they played the song from their wedding and danced carefully on the wet grass. When the rain began again, neither rushed to leave. Elena covered the food while Marcus gathered the blankets, each moving around the other with the practiced ease of ten shared years.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note taped to the coffee maker.

**Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus**

She smiled, then wrote beneath it:

**Too late. Don’t make dessert plans. —Elena**

They lived in a narrow brick townhouse outside Baltimore, close enough to hear commuter trains but far enough from downtown that evenings felt slow. Both had taken the day off, though neither admitted it until breakfast.

Marcus spent the morning shopping. At the neighborhood market, he chose salmon, asparagus, and the expensive olive oil Elena always picked up and put back. Meanwhile, Elena drove to the bakery where they had ordered their wedding cake. The bakery had changed owners, but she persuaded the clerk to pipe their names onto a small lemon cake.

By four, rain streaked the kitchen windows. Marcus cooked while Elena rearranged the living room, moving laundry baskets upstairs and setting candles on the mantel. When he discovered they were out of garlic, she pulled on her coat and ran to the corner store. When she returned soaked, he handed her a towel and a glass of wine.

“You’re ruining the surprise,” he said.

“So are you,” she replied, holding up the bakery box.

They ate at their own dining table instead of going out. Marcus had found the blue cloth napkins from their wedding reception, wrinkled but clean. Elena played the playlist they had made for the long drive to their honeymoon cabin.

Halfway through dinner, the power went out.

For a moment they sat in darkness. Then Elena lit the candles, and Marcus moved the salmon back onto the still-warm stove. Rain drummed against the roof.

They talked about the apartment they had shared first, the jobs they had quit, the dog they still missed, and the mortgage they were finally beginning to understand.

Later, they cut the cake unevenly and danced barefoot in the living room.

“It’s quieter than our wedding,” Marcus said.

Elena rested her head against his shoulder. “That was the plan.”

Outside, the whole block remained dark. Inside, neither of them hurried to fix anything.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note tucked beneath the sugar bowl.

“Don’t make dinner plans,” it read in Marcus’s hurried handwriting. “I’ve got it covered.”

She smiled, then called toward the bedroom, “You know I already bought groceries, right?”

Marcus appeared in the doorway, fastening his watch. “I was hoping you’d forget.”

“I never forget groceries.”

They lived in a narrow brick townhouse outside Baltimore, where celebrations usually competed with work schedules, traffic, and their eight-year-old refrigerator’s unpredictable humming. This year, they had agreed on something quiet—no restaurant reservation, no party, no gifts that required financing.

Still, both had made plans.

Marcus left work early and stopped at the neighborhood bakery for the lemon cake they had served at their wedding. When he returned, he found Elena kneeling on the living-room floor, sorting through photographs. She had arranged ten of them along the mantel, one from each year: their courthouse wedding, the cross-country drive to Maryland, the flooded basement, the first Thanksgiving they hosted, and ordinary afternoons neither remembered posing for.

“You kept the one with my terrible beard,” he said.

“It was an important year,” Elena replied. “You learned humility.”

While Marcus cooked pasta, Elena set the small dining table with their good plates and two candles. She opened a bottle of wine, then noticed smoke curling from the kitchen.

“The bread,” Marcus said.

They worked together without panic. Elena opened the windows while Marcus carried the blackened loaf outside. They laughed when the smoke alarm finally stopped shrieking.

Dinner was late. The pasta sauce was slightly too salty, and they ate store-bought crackers instead of bread. Afterward, Marcus cut the lemon cake while Elena played the song from their first dance on her phone.

They swayed between the table and the refrigerator, careful not to step on each other.

“Ten years,” Marcus said.

Elena rested her forehead against his. “And we’re getting better at disasters.”

Outside, cars moved along the wet street. Inside, the candles burned low, and neither of them hurried to turn on the lights.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note taped to the coffee maker.

**Dinner at home. No phones. I’ll cook. —Marcus**

She smiled, then added beneath it, **I’ll believe it when I see it. I’m bringing dessert.**

They lived outside Columbus, Ohio, in a narrow brick townhouse where the kitchen was barely wide enough for two people. By six, Marcus had filled it with the smell of garlic and rosemary. He was attempting the chicken dish they had eaten on their first trip together, though he kept checking the recipe with increasing concern.

Elena arrived carrying a white bakery box and two grocery bags.

“You said dessert,” Marcus said.

“I also said I’d believe it when I saw it.” She unpacked salad greens, lemons, and a bottle of sparkling cider. “You forgot vegetables.”

“I was prioritizing.”

Together they rescued dinner. Elena lowered the oven temperature before the chicken dried out, while Marcus whisked dressing and set the small dining table with their mismatched wedding china. He found two candles in the junk drawer. She trimmed them with kitchen scissors so they would stand evenly.

They had planned to eat on the patio, but an October rain began tapping against the windows. Marcus moved the chairs beside the living room fireplace instead. Elena spread a blanket on the floor and set out the plates.

Over dinner, they exchanged gifts. Marcus gave her a framed photograph of the apartment building where they had first met. Elena handed him a slim notebook filled with memories—one page for every year, plus blank pages for the years ahead.

He read the first entry aloud, laughing when she described his old car as “mostly rust with cup holders.”

After cake, they washed dishes side by side. Marcus dried while Elena stacked the plates.

“Quiet enough?” he asked.

She looked at the rain, the candles, and the notebook waiting on the table.

“Almost.”

She turned on the song from their first dance, and he held out his hand. In the cramped kitchen, careful not to step on the dog’s water bowl, they danced.


On Friday afternoon, Elena left work early and stopped at the neighborhood grocery store. It was her fifteenth wedding anniversary, and she and Marcus had agreed to keep the evening simple—no crowded restaurant, no expensive gifts, just dinner at home in their small house outside Columbus, Ohio.

Marcus arrived ten minutes after she did, carrying a paper bag from the bakery where they had bought their wedding cake. He held it behind his back until Elena noticed the streak of white frosting on his sleeve.

“You’re terrible at surprises,” she said, laughing.

“And you bought champagne even though we said we wouldn’t,” he replied, pointing to the bottle on the counter.

They divided the work without discussing it. Elena chopped onions and mushrooms for risotto while Marcus washed lettuce and set the table. He found the blue cloth napkins they used only on holidays, then searched the hall closet for the candleholders from their first apartment. One was slightly bent, but it still stood.

As the rice simmered, Elena connected her phone to the living room speaker. Their wedding song began, soft and a little tinny. Marcus reached for her hand.

“The risotto,” she warned.

“It can survive three minutes.”

They danced between the kitchen island and the refrigerator, stepping around the dog’s water bowl. Halfway through, the smoke alarm chirped. Elena rushed to stir the pan while Marcus opened a window and waved a dish towel beneath the alarm. The risotto was slightly scorched, but they ate it anyway.

After dinner, Marcus brought out two cupcakes topped with uneven buttercream roses. Elena gave him a small envelope containing printed photographs from trips they had taken over the years. Together, they spread them across the table, arguing cheerfully about dates and forgotten roadside stops.

Later, they carried their champagne to the porch. Cars passed on the damp street, and somewhere nearby, a lawn sprinkler clicked steadily.

“To fifteen years,” Marcus said.

Elena touched her glass to his. “And to staying home.”

They sat shoulder to shoulder until the porch light attracted too many mosquitoes, then went inside to wash the dishes together.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note taped to the coffeemaker.

Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus

She smiled, then called toward the hallway, “You know I already bought groceries, right?”

Marcus appeared with one shoe on and his tie hanging loose. “Good. We’ll use them. I’m cooking.”

“That sounds less like a gift and more like a fire hazard.”

He kissed her cheek before hurrying out to work.

They lived in a narrow townhouse outside Baltimore, where traffic hummed beyond the row of maples and the neighbors’ porch lights came on at nearly the same time each evening. Both had taken Friday afternoon off. At four, Marcus arrived carrying flowers from the supermarket and a paper bag from the bakery. Elena was already setting the small patio table.

“I thought we’d eat outside,” she said. “Like that restaurant on our first date.”

“The one where it rained into your soup?”

“The very one.”

They worked side by side in the kitchen. Marcus chopped onions for pasta sauce while Elena rolled out dough for the lemon tart she had secretly practiced all week. When the sauce began to burn, she pulled the pan from the heat. When her crust cracked, he pressed it back together with his thumbs.

By seven, rain tapped against the windows.

“Of course,” Marcus said.

Elena carried the plates into the living room. They spread a blanket on the floor, lit two candles, and opened the bottle of wine they had saved from a trip to California. The pasta was slightly smoky, and the tart leaned to one side, but neither minded.

After dinner, Marcus brought out an old shoebox. Inside were ticket stubs, photographs, and the apartment key Elena had given him eleven years earlier.

She added something of her own: a handwritten list titled “Ten Things We Built.”

They read it together, taking turns. At the bottom, she had written, “A life quiet enough to hear each other.”

Marcus reached for her hand as rain filled the pause.

“To ten years,” he said.

“And to staying in,” Elena replied.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Lena found a note taped to the coffee maker.

**No errands after work. Come straight home. —Marcus**

She smiled, then added beneath it, **Only if you promise not to burn dinner.**

By six, rain had turned the streets of their Ohio neighborhood glossy black. Lena arrived carrying a paper bag from the bakery where they had bought their wedding cake. Marcus met her at the door, wearing an apron and holding a wooden spoon.

“You ignored your own rule,” he said, nodding at the bag.

“This is not an errand. This is insurance.”

In the kitchen, tomato sauce bubbled on the stove. Marcus had spent his lunch break buying ingredients for the lasagna they used to make in their first apartment, back when their oven door had to be held shut with a chair. Lena set the table with their everyday plates, then found two candles in the junk drawer. One was bent, but it still stood in an empty jam jar.

While the lasagna baked, Marcus searched the hall closet for their wedding album. Lena connected her phone to the old speaker and built a playlist from songs they had listened to during long drives early in their marriage. They disagreed over one song—Marcus insisted it had played at their reception; Lena was certain it had not—until they found a video that proved them both wrong.

After dinner, they cut the small bakery cake. It was chocolate, not the lemon flavor they had served ten years ago.

“They were out,” Lena admitted.

“Good,” Marcus said. “The lemon was dry.”

They carried their plates to the couch and opened the album. Between photographs, they talked about the years that had passed: job changes, hospital waiting rooms, vacations, arguments, and ordinary Tuesdays.

Outside, the rain continued. Marcus raised his coffee mug.

“To ten years,” he said.

Lena touched her mug to his. “And to staying home.”

Neither of them felt they had missed anything.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Lena found a note tucked beneath the sugar bowl.

**No restaurants tonight,** it read. **Meet me at home at six. Wear the blue sweater. —Daniel**

She smiled, then wrote beneath his message: **Only if you wear the shirt without the paint stain.**

They had moved into their modest house outside Columbus, Ohio, three years earlier, and there was always something unfinished. The kitchen trim needed repainting. One porch step creaked. A stack of unopened mail leaned against the fruit bowl. But that evening, both of them wanted to ignore the list.

Daniel left work early and stopped at the neighborhood grocery store. He chose salmon, asparagus, and a small chocolate cake, then spent ten minutes comparing bottles of sparkling cider because Lena had an early shift at the hospital the next morning.

Meanwhile, Lena drove home through light rain, picked up the framed photograph she had ordered, and called Daniel.

“Don’t look in the hall closet,” she said.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Now you are.”

“Definitely.”

At home, they worked side by side. Daniel cooked while Lena set the table with the dishes they had received as wedding gifts and rarely used. When the smoke alarm sounded, Lena opened the back door and waved a dish towel beneath it while Daniel rescued the asparagus.

“Very elegant,” she said.

“Exactly as planned.”

After dinner, Daniel brought out a shoebox filled with ticket stubs, old birthday cards, and the apartment key they had forgotten to return after their first lease. Lena gave him the framed photograph: the two of them standing in front of that apartment, younger and exhausted, holding a secondhand couch between them.

They carried dessert to the porch. Rain tapped softly on the gutters, and traffic murmured beyond the wet trees.

Daniel reached for her hand. “Ten years.”

Lena squeezed his fingers. “And we still have the couch.”

They laughed, sitting close together as the porch step creaked beneath their feet.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note taped to the coffee maker.

**Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus**

She smiled, then added beneath it, **Too late. Don’t make dessert plans.**

They lived in a narrow brick townhouse outside Baltimore, close enough to hear traffic from the beltway when the wind shifted. Their anniversary fell on a Wednesday, between Marcus’s late meeting at the community college and Elena’s afternoon shift at the veterinary clinic. Neither wanted a restaurant, gifts, or a crowded celebration. What they wanted was an evening without obligations.

Marcus stopped at the grocery store on his way home. He bought salmon, asparagus, and the inexpensive sparkling wine they had served at their backyard wedding. Elena arrived ten minutes later carrying a small bakery box and a bundle of white daisies.

“You remembered,” Marcus said, taking the flowers.

“You remembered the wine.”

They worked side by side in the kitchen. Marcus seasoned the salmon while Elena trimmed the asparagus. When the smoke alarm shrieked, she opened the back door and waved a dish towel beneath it while he rescued the pan, both laughing hard enough that their eyes watered.

After dinner, Elena brought out two slices of lemon cake. Marcus found their old wedding playlist on his phone, and they danced in socks across the worn living-room rug. The song ended, but they stayed there, swaying in the quiet.

Later, they carried blankets to the small back porch. The neighboring houses glowed blue with televisions, and somewhere down the block a dog barked. Elena poured the last of the wine.

“Ten years,” she said. “Does it feel like ten?”

Marcus considered the mortgage, the job changes, her father’s illness, and all the ordinary mornings between.

“Sometimes twenty,” he said. “Sometimes one.”

Elena leaned against him. “Good answer.”

They clinked glasses, watching headlights pass beyond the fence. Nothing about the evening was grand, but they had planned it together, made it together, and that felt like the right way to honor everything they had built.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Lena found a note tucked beneath the sugar bowl.

**No errands after work. Come straight home. —Daniel**

She smiled, then wrote beneath it, **Only if you do the same**, and propped the note against his coffee mug.

They lived in a narrow townhouse outside Baltimore, where traffic hummed beyond the maple trees and the neighbor’s dog barked at delivery trucks. Both had taken on extra hours that year—Lena at the county library, Daniel at a small architecture firm—and lately they had been passing each other like commuters in a station.

At lunch, Lena called the Italian restaurant where they’d had their first date. Instead of making a reservation, she ordered two servings of mushroom ravioli to pick up. Daniel, meanwhile, stopped at the grocery store for sparkling cider and the lemon cookies Lena liked but rarely bought.

They arrived home within minutes of each other.

“You ignored your own note,” Lena said, spotting the grocery bag.

“So did you,” Daniel replied, lifting the takeout container from her hands.

Together they transformed the living room. Daniel moved the coffee table and spread their old picnic blanket on the rug. Lena found the brass candlesticks they had received as a wedding gift and scraped wax from the holders. When one candle leaned dangerously, Daniel steadied it with a folded piece of foil.

“It’s not elegant,” he said.

“It’s structurally sound,” she answered.

After dinner, they opened a shoebox filled with ticket stubs, postcards, and photographs. Daniel found a faded receipt from the diner where they had decided to move in together. Lena discovered the apartment listing they had circled in red.

They talked about the years between then and now: job changes, funerals, holidays, arguments they could finally laugh about. Before bed, Daniel put on the song from their wedding. Lena took his hand, and they danced carefully between the sofa and the cold fireplace.

Outside, cars passed on the wet street. Inside, nothing was grand or surprising. But for once, neither of them was rushing anywhere.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note taped to the coffee maker.

**Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus**

She smiled, then glanced toward the hallway. “You know I’m the one who checks the bank account, right?”

Marcus emerged, tying his shoes. “It’s not expensive.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

He kissed her cheek and hurried out to work.

They had agreed to celebrate quietly this year. Their daughter was sleeping at Elena’s sister’s house, and neither of them wanted a crowded restaurant or an elaborate gift. Still, all day Elena wondered what Marcus had planned.

At five, she came home to find him in the kitchen, frowning at a pot of sauce. The apartment smelled of tomatoes and burned garlic.

“You’re making the pasta from our first date,” she said.

“I’m attempting it.”

On that first date, Marcus had served undercooked spaghetti in his tiny college apartment. Elena had eaten two bowls anyway.

She set down her bag. “Move over.”

Together, they rescued the sauce. Marcus chopped basil while Elena started fresh garlic. When he admitted he had forgotten dessert, she pulled a small bakery box from behind the cereal.

“Chocolate cake?” he asked.

“The same kind we had at our wedding.”

After dinner, Marcus carried two blankets onto the fire escape. Elena brought the cake and a bottle of sparkling cider. Their neighborhood in Chicago hummed below them—buses braking, music drifting from an open window, someone calling for a dog.

Marcus handed her a thin envelope. Inside was a printed confirmation for two train tickets to Milwaukee, where they had spent their honeymoon because it was all they could afford.

“Next month,” he said. “If we can arrange childcare.”

Elena laughed and gave him her gift: a small framed photograph of that first honeymoon, both of them windblown beside the lake.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing cake from the box.

“Quiet enough?” Marcus asked.

Elena rested her head against him. “Almost.”

Then she reached inside, turned off his phone, and set it beside hers.


On the evening of their fifteenth wedding anniversary, Elena and Marcus agreed they wanted no reservations, no crowded restaurant, and no awkward waiter asking whether they were celebrating something special. They wanted their own kitchen in their small Ohio house, with the windows open to the mild September air.

Marcus stopped at the grocery store after work and chose two steaks, asparagus, and a bakery cake barely large enough for two. Elena came home early and cleared the dining table, stacking unopened mail and their daughter’s school papers on the counter. She found the cream-colored tablecloth from their wedding shower, ironed it, and laughed when she discovered an old red-wine stain near one corner.

“We’ll put your plate there,” she told him when he arrived.

“Still blaming me after fifteen years?”

“You knocked over the glass.”

“You bumped my elbow.”

They cooked together, moving around each other with the practiced efficiency of people who had shared thousands of meals. Marcus seasoned the steaks while Elena trimmed the asparagus and put on the playlist they had made during their first road trip. When an old soul song filled the kitchen, he held out his hand. She rolled her eyes but danced with him anyway, both of them careful not to step on the dog.

Dinner was nearly ready when the grill ran out of propane.

For a moment, Marcus stared at the silent burners. Elena checked the oven, then slid a cast-iron skillet onto the stove.

“We adapt,” she said.

He opened the windows wider before the smoke alarm could complain. Together they finished the steaks, rescued the asparagus, and carried everything to the table.

After dinner, Elena brought out a shoebox of photographs. Marcus found one from their courthouse wedding: her laughing, him squinting into the sun. They talked about the apartment they had rented, the jobs they had lost, the child they had raised, and the house that still needed a new roof.

At midnight, they split the last piece of cake.

“Same plan next year?” Marcus asked.

Elena leaned against him. “Quiet, imperfect, and ours.”

He smiled. “Exactly.”


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note taped to the coffee maker.

**Dinner at home. No phones. I’ll cook. —Marcus**

She smiled, then wrote beneath it, **Only if I choose the music.**

They lived in a narrow townhouse outside Baltimore, close enough to hear the evening traffic but far enough from downtown that their small backyard attracted rabbits. Neither wanted a restaurant. Their anniversary fell on a Thursday, and both had work the next morning. Besides, the last decade had taught them that quiet celebrations often mattered most.

During her lunch break, Elena stopped at a bakery and bought two slices of lemon cake—the same flavor they had served at their wedding. Marcus left the office early and went to the grocery store for salmon, asparagus, and a bottle of sparkling cider. They had given up alcohol together the previous year, another milestone neither had expected to reach.

At six, Elena came home carrying the cake box and a bunch of grocery-store daisies. Marcus was in the kitchen, staring at a smoking skillet.

“I thought you said you could cook,” she said, opening a window.

“I said I would cook. Different claim.”

Laughing, she tied on an apron and helped rescue the dinner. Marcus seasoned the salmon while Elena trimmed the asparagus. He set the table with their wedding china; she found the old playlist from their reception. When their first-dance song began, they stopped arguing about whether the fish was done.

After dinner, they carried the cake outside. Marcus lit a candle in each slice, though Elena pointed out that two candles did not equal ten years.

“They’re symbolic,” he said.

“Of poor planning?”

“Of us making things work.”

They sat on the back steps, shoulders touching, and named one hope for the next decade. Elena wanted more travel. Marcus wanted fewer postponed weekends. Together they agreed to start with Saturday—a day trip, somewhere nearby.

Then they blew out the candles before the wind could do it for them.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note taped to the refrigerator.

**Don’t make dinner plans. I’ve got it covered. —Marcus**

She smiled, then wrote beneath it: **Too late. I have dessert covered.**

They had agreed weeks ago that they didn’t want a party. Between Marcus’s long shifts at the hospital and Elena’s deadlines at the architecture firm, a quiet evening at their townhouse outside Baltimore sounded luxurious enough.

Still, the day conspired against them. At five, Marcus texted that traffic on I-95 was barely moving. Elena, already home, discovered the upstairs neighbor’s washing machine had leaked through the kitchen ceiling.

She called the landlord, moved the dining table, and set a mixing bowl under the drip. Then she lit two candles anyway.

Marcus arrived forty minutes late, carrying a paper bag spotted with grease.

“I had reservations,” he said, holding up the bag, “but I missed them. So we’re having the finest dumplings in the strip mall.”

“Perfect,” Elena said. “I nearly flooded the house.”

Together, they shifted dinner to the living room. Marcus found an old bedsheet to protect the coffee table, while Elena arranged dumplings, noodles, and two mismatched wineglasses. The leak tapped steadily into the bowl in the kitchen.

After they ate, Elena brought out a small chocolate cake she had baked that afternoon. The frosting leaned noticeably to one side.

Marcus studied it. “Architecturally ambitious.”

“Structurally unsound,” she admitted.

He cut two slices while she opened the wooden box where they kept old photographs and ticket stubs. They laughed over a faded picture from their first road trip, both sunburned beside a broken-down car in Virginia.

“We’ve gotten better at disasters,” Marcus said.

Elena listened to the drip in the next room. “Smaller disasters, maybe.”

He raised his glass. “To ten years.”

She touched hers to it. Outside, rain began softly against the windows. Inside, with the candles burning low and the cake collapsing between them, they stayed on the couch, talking long past midnight.


On the morning of their fifteenth wedding anniversary, Lena found a note taped to the coffee maker.

**Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus**

She smiled, then wrote underneath it:

**Too late. Don’t make dessert plans. —Lena**

They had agreed to keep the evening quiet. Their daughter was sleeping at a friend’s house, and neither of them wanted a crowded restaurant or an expensive hotel. After years of soccer practices, plumbing repairs, and work emails answered from the grocery store, an empty house felt luxurious enough.

Marcus left his job at the county library early and stopped at a neighborhood market in Baltimore. He bought salmon, asparagus, and the soft cheese Lena liked, then spent ten minutes comparing bottles of wine before choosing one from Virginia.

Meanwhile, Lena finished her shift at the clinic and drove across town to the bakery that had made their wedding cake. The bakery had changed owners, and the original lemon cake was no longer on the menu, but she persuaded the clerk to sell her two lemon cupcakes with raspberry filling.

At home, Marcus discovered that the grill’s propane tank was empty. Lena arrived to find him kneeling beside it, frowning.

“We could order pizza,” he said.

“Not yet.” She took the salmon inside while he drove to the hardware store for propane. By the time he returned, she had trimmed the asparagus, set the table, and found the old blue candles from their tenth anniversary.

They cooked together, bumping elbows in the small kitchen. Marcus burned one corner of the salmon; Lena dropped a fork and nearly stepped on it. Both laughed harder than the mistakes deserved.

After dinner, they carried the cupcakes to the porch. Traffic murmured beyond the row houses, and someone nearby was playing jazz through an open window.

Marcus raised his glass. “Fifteen years.”

Lena touched her glass to his. “And we still make a decent team.”

They shared the cupcakes, then sat shoulder to shoulder until the candles went out on their own.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note tucked beneath the coffee maker.

**No errands after work. Come straight home. —M**

She smiled and carried it to the bedroom, where Marcus was searching for a clean blue tie.

“You know I work from home on Thursdays,” she said, waving the note.

Marcus stopped. “Then pretend you didn’t see it until five.”

Elena laughed, selected the tie hanging from the doorknob, and looped it around his collar. They had agreed not to buy gifts this year. The furnace had needed repairs, and their daughter’s braces were due next month. Still, Marcus had clearly planned something.

At noon, Elena drove to the neighborhood bakery outside Columbus and picked up a small lemon cake—the same flavor they had served at their wedding. Back home, she cleared paperwork from the dining table, found two candles, and printed the first photograph taken of them together: Marcus squinting into the sun, Elena holding a paper cup of lemonade.

Marcus returned at six carrying grocery bags and a bunch of grocery-store tulips. He had planned to cook the pasta they ate on their first date, though he admitted he had called his sister twice for instructions.

While he chopped garlic, Elena set the table. When the sauce began to burn, she pulled the pan off the stove and opened the windows. Marcus rescued the pasta; Elena added cream to the sauce and stirred until the bitterness faded.

They ate with the television off and their phones in a drawer. Marcus gave her a handwritten list titled **Ten Things We Built**, beginning with “a home where people can exhale.” Elena showed him the old photograph and brought out the cake.

Later, they sat on the back steps beneath a porch light that attracted moths. Cars passed on the wet street. Somewhere, a dog barked.

“It wasn’t exactly quiet,” Marcus said.

Elena rested her head on his shoulder. “Quiet enough.”

Together, they carried the dishes inside.


Maya set two grocery bags on the kitchen counter and called, “I found the good olives.”

From the living room, Daniel answered, “Then the evening is officially saved.”

It was their fifteenth wedding anniversary, and for once they had agreed not to make reservations, dress up, or drive across town. They wanted a quiet evening in their small house outside Minneapolis, where they had lived for nearly a decade.

While Maya unpacked bread, cheese, and a bottle of sparkling cider, Daniel moved the coffee table aside and spread a quilt on the rug. He had found it that morning in the hall closet—the faded blue one they had taken on their first camping trip.

“You remembered,” Maya said.

“I remembered the rain,” he replied. “And the tent leaking.”

“You said it was condensation.”

“I was trying to protect morale.”

They worked together in the kitchen. Maya sliced pears and arranged them on a wooden board. Daniel warmed soup and nearly burned the bread while searching for the playlist from their wedding reception. When the first song finally came through the speakers, Maya laughed.

“We chose this?”

“You chose it,” Daniel said.

“You approved it.”

“That was my first act of marital compromise.”

After dinner, they carried their bowls to the sink but left the dishes for later. Daniel brought out a shoebox filled with ticket stubs, old photographs, and notes they had written during the year they lived in different states. Maya added a new envelope. Inside was a printed confirmation for a weekend trip to Lake Superior in October.

“I thought we weren’t exchanging gifts,” he said.

“It’s not a gift. It’s a plan.”

Daniel nodded, then handed her a folded sheet of paper. He had written down fifteen ordinary moments he was grateful for: Sunday coffee, shoveling the driveway together, her hand finding his in crowded places.

Maya read the list slowly. Then she leaned against him on the quilt.

Outside, a neighbor’s lawn mower started and a dog barked down the block. Their house was imperfectly quiet, but neither of them minded.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Lena found a note tucked beneath the sugar bowl.

**No errands after work. Come straight home. —Marcus**

She smiled, then wrote beneath it:

**Only if you do the same. And don’t buy flowers. The cat eats them.**

They had agreed on a quiet evening. No crowded restaurant, no expensive gifts. After a decade of marriage—and a month of unexpected car repairs—they wanted something simple.

Marcus left his office in downtown Columbus at five and stopped only at the neighborhood bakery, where he picked up two slices of lemon cake. Meanwhile, Lena finished her shift at the library, hurried home, and began making the pasta they had eaten on their first date. She burned the garlic while trying to find the old jazz playlist.

When Marcus walked in, the smoke alarm was chirping.

“Perfect timing,” Lena called, waving a dish towel beneath it.

He set down the cake and opened the kitchen window. “Just like our first apartment.”

“That alarm went off if we made toast.”

Together they rescued dinner. Marcus chopped fresh garlic while Lena started the sauce again. She grated Parmesan; he set the small dining table with their mismatched blue plates. Neither mentioned that the pasta was slightly overcooked.

After dinner, Lena brought out a shoebox filled with ticket stubs, postcards, and photographs. Marcus found the receipt from the roadside motel where they had stayed during a thunderstorm on their honeymoon drive through Tennessee.

“We complained all night,” he said.

“You complained. I slept.”

“You stole both pillows.”

They sat on the living-room floor, laughing softly as rain tapped the windows. Then Marcus connected his phone to the old speaker, and the song from their wedding began to play.

Lena stood and held out her hand. “One dance?”

Marcus took it. They moved carefully between the coffee table and the couch, stepping on each other’s feet twice.

When the song ended, Lena rested her head against his shoulder.

“Quiet enough?” he asked.

She looked around at the dishes, the open shoebox, and the cat investigating the cake box.

“Exactly right,” she said.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a yellow sticky note on the coffee maker.

**Dinner at home. No phones. I’ll cook. —Marcus**

She smiled, then added a note beneath his in blue ink.

**You burned water last time. I’ll help.**

They had considered going to a restaurant downtown, but the reservation deposit, parking, and babysitter would have turned one evening into a small financial event. Besides, their daughter was at Elena’s sister’s house for a sleepover, and the rare quiet in their Ohio home felt more luxurious than any crowded dining room.

After work, Marcus stopped at the grocery store for salmon, asparagus, and the lemon cake Elena liked. He called from the produce aisle.

“Do we own garlic?”

“We own something that used to be garlic,” she said. “Buy more.”

Elena arrived home first and cleared the kitchen table, pushing aside school forms, unopened mail, and a basket of clean laundry. She found the cloth napkins they had received as a wedding gift and ironed them on the counter. Marcus came in carrying two paper bags and a bunch of grocery-store tulips.

“They’re leaning,” he admitted.

“So are we,” Elena said, taking them from him.

They cooked together. Marcus seasoned the salmon while Elena trimmed the asparagus and corrected his oven temperature. When the smoke alarm chirped, they opened a window and laughed until Elena had to sit down.

Later, they ate by candlelight, with the dishwasher humming in the next room. Marcus brought out an old photo album. They looked at pictures from their courthouse wedding, their first apartment, and the year their daughter was born.

“I thought ten years would feel longer,” Elena said.

Marcus reached across the table. “It felt long on Tuesday.”

She squeezed his hand. “Tuesday was terrible.”

They divided the last piece of cake evenly, then carried their plates to the sink together. Before turning on their phones again, they slow-danced in the living room to the song from their wedding, stepping around a pile of laundry neither of them had remembered to move.


On Friday afternoon, Elena left work early and stopped at the neighborhood grocery store. It was her and Marcus’s fifteenth wedding anniversary, and they had agreed to celebrate at home rather than spend half the evening stuck in Chicago traffic.

She texted him from the produce aisle. “Do we need lemons?”

“Two,” he replied. “And don’t buy dessert.”

That meant he was baking, which made her smile. Marcus approached baking like a home repair: carefully, with every tool arranged in advance. By the time Elena reached their brick two-flat, he had opened a bottle of wine and was measuring flour for the chocolate cake they had served at their wedding.

Elena set down the groceries and inspected his work. “You forgot to soften the butter.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

She cut it into cubes while he chopped onions for the risotto. They moved around their small kitchen with the practiced coordination of people who had shared it for years. She stirred the rice; he warmed the stock. When the smoke alarm chirped because a mushroom fell beneath the burner, Marcus waved a dish towel while Elena opened the back door, both of them laughing.

After dinner, they carried the cake to the living room. Marcus had found their old wedding album, and Elena had made a playlist of songs from the year they met. Rain tapped against the windows as they sat together on the rug, turning pages.

They paused at a photograph of themselves outside the courthouse, young and squinting in the sun.

“We had no idea what we were doing,” Marcus said.

“We still don’t,” Elena replied, leaning against him. “We’re just better at admitting it.”

He raised his glass. “To fifteen years of improvising.”

Elena touched her glass to his. Later, she put on their first-dance song, and Marcus pulled her to her feet. They danced slowly between the coffee table and the couch, careful not to step on the dog, while the city buses sighed along the wet street below.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a yellow sticky note pressed to the coffee maker.

**Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus**

She smiled, then called toward the hallway, “This is suspiciously vague.”

Marcus appeared, knotting his tie. “It’s supposed to be mysterious.”

“You drew a grocery list on the back.”

He flipped the note over. “Fine. Mysterious and environmentally responsible.”

They lived in a narrow brick townhouse outside Baltimore, where weeknights were usually organized around commuting, laundry, and whatever needed fixing. They had celebrated earlier anniversaries with crowded restaurants and weekend trips, but this year they had agreed on something quiet.

After work, Elena stopped at the neighborhood bakery for the lemon cake they had served at their wedding. Marcus picked up salmon, asparagus, and a bottle of inexpensive California wine—the same brand they had bought on their first date because neither of them knew anything about wine.

At home, they worked side by side. Elena seasoned the fish while Marcus trimmed the asparagus. When the smoke alarm shrieked, Elena waved a dish towel beneath it and Marcus rescued the pan, both of them laughing hard enough that the dog began barking.

Dinner was slightly overcooked, but they carried it to the small patio anyway. Marcus had strung warm lights along the fence. Elena had brought out an old shoebox filled with photographs, ticket stubs, and notes they had saved.

They took turns choosing memories. Marcus found the receipt from the hardware store where they had bought paint for their first apartment. Elena produced a photograph of them standing in an empty living room, exhausted and proud.

“Ten years,” Marcus said, reaching across the table.

“Fourteen since we met,” Elena corrected.

“Still keeping score?”

“Someone has to.”

Later, they cut the cake and danced barefoot in the kitchen to their wedding song, careful not to wake the neighbors. Nothing about the evening was grand, but when Marcus rested his forehead against hers, Elena thought it felt exactly right: a celebration built from the ordinary life they had made together.


On the morning of their fifteenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note tucked beneath the sugar bowl.

**No gifts. No restaurant. Home by six. —Marcus**

She smiled and wrote underneath it, **Agreed. But I’m choosing dessert.**

They lived in a narrow brick house outside Baltimore, where the kitchen window faced an alley and the upstairs floor creaked whenever someone crossed it. Most anniversaries had been squeezed between work, bills, and their daughter’s school schedule. This year, their daughter was away at college, and the quiet felt both luxurious and strange.

Marcus left work early and stopped at the neighborhood market. He chose two salmon fillets, green beans, and a bottle of wine they had first tried on their honeymoon. The label had changed, and the price had doubled, but he bought it anyway.

Meanwhile, Elena came home with a small chocolate cake and a bunch of yellow tulips. She cleared unopened mail from the dining table, found the linen napkins they rarely used, and set out two mismatched candles. When Marcus arrived, she was standing on a chair, trying to reach their old photo album on the top shelf.

“Don’t fall before dinner,” he said, steadying the chair.

“Then you get it,” she replied, climbing down.

They cooked together. Marcus handled the salmon while Elena trimmed the beans and argued that he was using too much garlic. He insisted there was no such thing. When the smoke alarm chirped, they opened the back door and laughed as cold air rushed through the kitchen.

After dinner, they carried the cake and album to the living room. They turned pages slowly: their courthouse wedding, the first apartment, hospital bracelets, beach trips, ordinary birthdays. Marcus paused at a photograph of them painting the nursery.

“We looked terrified,” he said.

“We were terrified,” Elena answered. She reached for his hand. “We did it anyway.”

At nine, they poured the last of the wine and danced barefoot to the song from their wedding. Outside, a bus sighed at the corner. Inside, the candles burned low, and neither of them hurried to turn on the lights.


On the morning of their fifteenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a sticky note on the coffeemaker.

**Dinner at home. No phones. I’ll cook. —Marcus**

She smiled, then added beneath it, **I’ll supervise.**

They lived in a narrow brick townhouse outside Baltimore, where traffic hummed beyond the kitchen window and the neighbor’s maple tree dropped red leaves across their shared driveway. Both had taken the afternoon off, though neither admitted how much rearranging that required.

Marcus stopped at the market after lunch, choosing salmon, asparagus, and a bottle of the same inexpensive California wine they had served at their wedding. Elena visited the bakery for a small lemon cake, then dug through the hall closet until she found the blue tablecloth from their first apartment.

By five, they were working side by side. Marcus seasoned the fish while Elena trimmed the asparagus. When the smoke alarm shrieked, she opened the windows and waved a dish towel beneath it while he rescued the pan.

“Still think you don’t need supervision?” she asked.

“I think the alarm is overly sensitive.”

They laughed, but the day had not been entirely easy. Their anniversary came after a year of hospital visits for Marcus’s father and long workweeks for Elena. At times, they had spoken mostly in reminders: prescriptions, grocery lists, utility bills.

Elena set two candles on the table. Marcus turned off the overhead light and placed their phones in a kitchen drawer. Before they ate, he handed her an envelope. Inside was a printed reservation for a weekend at the Maryland coast—nothing extravagant, just two nights in October.

Elena reached into her pocket and produced two tickets to a jazz concert, his favorite band.

“You planned ahead,” he said.

“So did you.”

After dinner, they washed the dishes together. Marcus scrubbed; Elena dried. Then they carried the cake to the porch and sat under a blanket as evening settled over the block.

Cars passed. A dog barked. Their candles flickered behind the window.

“To fifteen years,” Marcus said.

Elena touched her glass to his. “And to paying attention for the next fifteen.”


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a yellow sticky note on the coffee maker.

**No errands after work. Come straight home. —M**

She smiled, then wrote beneath it, **Only if you do the same**, and stuck it to Marcus’s lunch container.

They had once celebrated anniversaries with crowded restaurants and expensive gifts. This year, after a summer of car repairs and medical bills, they agreed on something quiet at their townhouse outside Columbus, Ohio. Still, neither wanted the evening to feel ordinary.

During her lunch break, Elena called the neighborhood bakery and reserved two slices of the lemon cake they had served at their wedding. Marcus left work early and stopped at a small grocery store, where he debated between roses and sunflowers. He chose sunflowers because Elena had carried them on their first date to an outdoor concert.

At home, Marcus cleared the dining table, found their cloth napkins, and lit the candles they usually saved for power outages. Elena arrived with the cake and a bottle of sparkling cider. She changed into a blue dress while Marcus cooked pasta with mushrooms and garlic, the first meal he had learned to make when they moved in together.

“Needs salt,” Elena said, tasting the sauce.

Marcus handed her the spoon. “Then save it.”

She added salt, pepper, and a little cream. Together they carried the dishes to the table. Before eating, Elena placed an old photograph between the candles: the two of them at twenty-six, soaked by rain outside the courthouse, laughing after discovering they had locked their keys in the car.

Marcus studied it. “We had no idea what we were doing.”

“We still don’t,” Elena said. “We’re just better at taking turns.”

After dinner, he washed while she dried. Then they ate lemon cake on the living-room floor and made a list of ten things they wanted to do in the next ten years. Most were modest: visit New Mexico, plant tomatoes, learn to dance.

At midnight, they added one more: keep choosing evenings like this.


On the morning of their fifteenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a yellow sticky note on the coffee maker.

**No errands after work. Come straight home. —M**

She smiled and tucked it into her purse, though she already knew Marcus had been planning something. For three days, he had guarded the refrigerator like it contained state secrets.

At five-thirty, Elena pulled into their driveway outside Columbus, Ohio. Marcus was on the porch, wrestling a folding table through the front door.

“You said quiet evening,” she called.

“It will be quiet once I stop dropping things.”

Inside, he had set the table with their wedding china, which they usually considered too fragile to touch. A pot of tomato sauce simmered on the stove. Marcus had tried to recreate the pasta they ate on their first date, but the sauce was too sweet and the noodles had begun sticking together.

Elena tasted it, opened the spice cabinet, and handed him the red pepper flakes. “We can save this.”

While Marcus fixed the sauce, Elena changed out of her work clothes and returned with a shoebox. She placed it beside his plate. Inside were ticket stubs, photographs, and receipts she had saved over the years. Marcus lifted a faded movie ticket from the night he proposed.

“I thought you threw these away when we moved,” he said.

“I told you I threw away the junk drawer. I never said everything in it was junk.”

After dinner, they carried two blankets to the backyard. Marcus strung battery-powered lights along the fence while Elena set up a small speaker and poured sparkling cider. Their neighbors’ dog barked twice, then settled down.

They sat beneath the maple tree they had planted after buying the house. It was taller now than the roof.

Marcus raised his glass. “To fifteen years.”

Elena tapped hers against it. “And to finally learning that pasta needs more water.”

He laughed, then reached for her hand. They listened to the playlist they had made for their wedding reception, talking quietly as the Ohio evening cooled around them.


On the morning of their fifteenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note taped to the coffee maker.

**Don’t cook tonight. I have a plan. —Marcus**

She smiled, then added beneath it, **So do I. Be home by six.**

They lived in a narrow brick townhouse outside Baltimore, where traffic, work, and their daughter’s college applications had lately crowded out anything resembling romance. Their daughter was spending the night with a friend, giving them the first quiet evening they’d had in months.

Marcus left work early and stopped at the neighborhood market. He bought salmon, asparagus, and the lemon cookies Elena loved. At home, he discovered her arranging white grocery-store daisies in the blue pitcher they had bought on their honeymoon.

“I said don’t cook,” he reminded her, lifting the shopping bag.

“I’m not cooking.” Elena pointed toward the living room. She had spread a blanket on the rug and set out two wineglasses. “I’m relocating dinner.”

Rain had canceled her plan for a picnic at the park where Marcus had proposed. Instead, she had brought the picnic indoors. Marcus laughed and held up the salmon.

“Then I’m still making dinner.”

They worked side by side in the kitchen. Elena trimmed asparagus while Marcus seasoned the fish. When the smoke alarm chirped, she waved a dish towel beneath it and he opened the windows, letting in the smell of wet pavement.

After dinner, Marcus brought out a small cardboard box. Inside were ticket stubs, old photographs, and the receipt from the diner where they had eaten after their courthouse wedding.

Elena handed him an envelope. It contained two train tickets to New York for a weekend in October—something they had discussed for years but never scheduled.

“You actually picked a date,” he said.

“You actually kept a diner receipt.”

They sat on the blanket, listening to rain tap the windows. There were no candles after one tipped dangerously close to the rug, and the cookies were slightly crushed. Still, when Marcus reached for her hand, Elena thought the evening felt exactly right: imperfect, shared, and deliberately theirs.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a yellow sticky note on the coffee maker.

**No gifts. No restaurant. Home by six. —Marcus**

She smiled and wrote beneath it, **Agreed. But I’m choosing dessert.**

They had celebrated earlier anniversaries with crowded bistros, weekend trips, and one disastrous outdoor concert in a thunderstorm. This year, after months of overtime, home repairs, and helping Marcus’s mother recover from surgery, they wanted something quieter.

Elena left work early and stopped at a bakery near their house in Columbus, Ohio. The chocolate cake she had ordered was small enough for two, though the baker had added gold icing roses that made it look more ceremonial than she intended.

At home, Marcus was already in the kitchen, chopping mushrooms for the pasta they had cooked on their first date. He had found the recipe in an old box, stained with olive oil and written in Elena’s cramped handwriting.

“You kept that?” she asked.

“You kept me,” he said. “The recipe seemed easier.”

She bumped him with her hip and took over the sauce while he set the table. Marcus lit two candles, then reconsidered and moved them away from the smoke detector. Elena chose a playlist from the year they met, rejecting three songs before settling on one they both remembered dancing to badly.

They cooked together, arguing mildly about salt. When the pasta was ready, Marcus carried the plates to the dining room, and Elena poured sparkling water into their wedding glasses. One had a tiny chip in the rim, so she gave it to him.

“Still trusting me with the damaged one?” he asked.

“You’re the careful one.”

After dinner, they cut the cake and exchanged letters they had written that afternoon. Neither letter was elegant. Both mentioned the leaky basement, his mother’s recovery, and the way Elena always warmed Marcus’s side of the bed in winter.

Later, they danced in socks between the table and the couch. Outside, traffic moved along the wet street. Inside, Marcus counted softly to keep time, and Elena deliberately stepped on his foot.

Ten years, they agreed, deserved at least one bad dance.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a yellow sticky note on the coffeemaker.

**No errands after work. Come straight home. —Marcus**

She smiled, then added a note beneath his in blue ink.

**Only if you do the same. And don’t buy flowers. The cat eats them. —E**

They had considered going to a restaurant downtown, but the reservation times were late, parking was expensive, and both of them had busy weeks. Instead, they agreed on a quiet evening in their townhouse outside Baltimore.

Marcus left work early and stopped at the neighborhood market. He chose fresh pasta, tomatoes, basil, and the same inexpensive red wine they had served at their wedding. At home, he cleared the mail from the dining table and ironed the cloth napkins, though he had to watch a video to remember how to fold them.

Elena arrived carrying a small bakery box and an old photo album. She changed out of her office clothes, tied on an apron, and joined Marcus in the kitchen. While he made sauce, she rolled meatballs and corrected his overly generous use of garlic.

“There is no such thing as too much garlic,” he said.

“There is if I have to sit next to you,” she replied, nudging him with her hip.

After dinner, they carried slices of chocolate cake to the living room. Rain tapped against the windows, and their cat settled between them on the couch. Elena opened the album to a photograph of them leaving the courthouse ten years earlier, laughing under a borrowed umbrella.

Marcus raised his glass. “We look terrified.”

“We were terrified,” Elena said. “We just didn’t know enough to admit it.”

They talked about the apartments they had rented, the jobs they had lost and found, and the ordinary routines that had become their life together.

Before bed, Marcus washed the dishes while Elena dried them. The evening had been simple, but neither of them felt they had missed anything.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found a note taped to the coffee maker.

No gifts, it read. Home by six. Wear the blue sweater.

She smiled. Marcus had been leaving notes since their first apartment in Ohio, when their refrigerator rattled and the upstairs neighbor practiced drums after midnight.

At lunch, Elena slipped out of the library and drove to the Italian market. She bought fresh pasta, tomatoes, basil, and the almond cookies Marcus loved. Back home, she set water to boil, then pulled a shoebox from the hall closet. Inside were ticket stubs, old photographs, and the receipt from the diner where they had shared pancakes after getting married at the county courthouse.

Marcus arrived carrying a paper bag and a bundle of grocery-store daisies.

“You said no gifts,” Elena said.

“Flowers are infrastructure.”

“For what?”

“A successful evening.”

While Elena finished the sauce, Marcus cleared the dining table of mail, replaced the burned-out bulb above it, and found two candles in the junk drawer. He had brought sparkling cider, remembering that Elena was driving early the next morning to visit her sister.

They ate slowly, with their phones turned off on the counter. Rain tapped against the windows of their Maryland townhouse. After dinner, Elena brought out the shoebox.

Marcus held up a faded photograph of them beside a rented moving truck. “We thought that couch was worth saving.”

“You thought that couch was worth saving.”

Together they sorted the keepsakes into a new album. Marcus wrote dates beneath the pictures; Elena added brief captions, correcting him when he confused Pittsburgh with Philadelphia.

At nine, the power flickered and went out. They carried the candles to the living room and sat on the floor, the unfinished album between them.

“We didn’t make a reservation,” Marcus said.

“We didn’t need one.”

He reached for her hand. Outside, neighbors’ porch lights blinked back on, but neither of them moved to turn on a lamp.


On Friday afternoon, Elena left work early and stopped at the neighborhood market for rosemary, a loaf of sourdough, and the chocolate cake Marcus pretended not to like. Their fifteenth wedding anniversary had fallen in the middle of a hectic week, and they had agreed on one rule: no reservations, no gifts, no fuss.

At home, Marcus was already clearing the dining table of unopened mail and his laptop. He had found the linen napkins from their wedding registry in the back of a kitchen drawer. They were wrinkled, but he ironed them anyway, watching a video on his phone to remember how.

“You’re using too much heat,” Elena said when she came in.

“You’re welcome to take over.”

Instead, she kissed his cheek and began chopping potatoes. Marcus seasoned the chicken while Elena opened a bottle of wine from a Virginia vineyard they had visited years ago. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen, trading utensils and reminders. When the smoke alarm chirped, Marcus waved a dish towel beneath it while Elena rescued the bread.

By seven, rain tapped against the windows. They set their phones in the bedroom and ate by candlelight, though the overhead light stayed on because Marcus could not read his plate without it.

After dinner, Elena brought out an old shoebox. Inside were ticket stubs, photographs, and the receipt from the diner where they had gone after their courthouse wedding. Marcus found a picture of their first apartment, with its stained carpet and folding chairs.

“We thought we were doing pretty well,” he said.

“We were doing pretty well,” Elena replied.

He washed the dishes while she dried them, and together they packed the leftovers for Saturday. Then Marcus put on the song from their first dance. They swayed in the living room, careful of the coffee table.

Nothing about the evening was impressive. The chicken was slightly dry, the cake leaned to one side, and rain canceled their planned walk. Still, when the song ended, neither of them stepped away.