On the first Saturday in October, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Dinner, trip, or party,” he said, tapping the headings. “Ten years deserves something.”

They had been together since their last year of college and had shared the small bungalow outside Columbus for six of those years. Their anniversary fell on a Wednesday, but both had taken Friday off. Lena had imagined a weekend in Chicago. Marcus, who had recently started paying down a large dental bill, was worried about the cost.

“A trip sounds romantic until we spend November arguing about the credit card,” he said.

Lena sat across from him. “And a party sounds fun until we spend our anniversary cleaning the bathroom for thirty people.”

They laughed, then grew quiet. Neither wanted the date to feel ordinary. They weren’t married, and although that suited them, anniversaries mattered because they were the clearest markers of the life they had built.

Marcus suggested returning to the diner where they had gone on their first date. Lena liked the idea but wanted to include the friends and relatives who had supported them over the years. By the time their coffee was cold, they had a plan.

On Wednesday evening, they dressed up and drove to the diner. The vinyl booths had been replaced, but the same neon clock hung above the register. They ordered burgers and split a slice of cherry pie. Marcus gave Lena a small photo book, one picture from each year. Lena handed him a letter describing ten things she loved about their life together, including his habit of leaving porch lights on for her.

That Friday, they hosted a backyard cookout. Marcus grilled while Lena arranged folding chairs and queued a playlist from their college days. Their parents, siblings, and closest friends brought side dishes.

At sunset, Lena raised her glass. “To ten years,” she said.

“And to not going into debt for them,” Marcus added.

Everyone laughed. Later, after the guests left, they sat on the porch among paper plates and empty bottles, tired and satisfied. The celebration had been modest, but it felt like them: practical, shared, and full of people they loved.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three browser tabs showing expensive restaurants.

“Please tell me you’re not trying to book that rooftop place,” she said, setting down the groceries.

“It’s our tenth anniversary,” Ben replied. “I thought we should do something big.”

They had been together for ten years and had shared their small house outside Minneapolis for six. They weren’t married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony would change much. Still, the anniversary mattered. It marked the night they had met at a friend’s crowded game night, arguing over the rules to Scrabble.

Maya unpacked a carton of eggs. “That restaurant costs more than the water heater repair.”

“That’s not romantic.”

“Neither is a cold shower.”

Ben laughed, but closed the reservation page. He admitted that he had been worried a quiet evening would make the milestone feel ordinary. Maya understood. She had been considering a weekend in Chicago, but arranging care for their elderly dog, Pepper, had become complicated.

They made coffee and spread a notepad between them. Ben suggested revisiting the bar where they’d had their first date. Maya proposed cooking the meal they had attempted in their first apartment: mushroom risotto and chocolate cake. The original risotto had been crunchy, and the cake had collapsed.

“What if we do both?” Ben said. “A drink at the bar, then come home and prove we’ve learned something.”

On the anniversary, they took a photograph outside the bar, though its old green awning had been replaced. Back home, Maya stirred the risotto while Ben measured ingredients for the cake. Pepper waited beneath them for anything that fell.

The risotto was creamy. The cake sank slightly in the middle.

Ben lit ten mismatched candles and placed them around the dent. Maya raised her glass.

“To learning something,” she said.

“And to still being here,” he answered.

They ate at their own kitchen table, with the repaired water heater humming in the basement, and agreed the evening felt exactly big enough.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a spreadsheet open on his laptop.

“Please tell me you didn’t make a budget for our anniversary,” she said.

“I made three budgets,” Ben replied. “Responsible, optimistic, and wildly irresponsible.”

Their tenth anniversary was two weeks away—not a wedding anniversary, as both of their mothers still occasionally clarified, but ten years since their first date at a minor-league baseball game in Ohio. They had since moved to Denver, bought a small bungalow together, adopted an elderly dog, and built a life that felt settled without feeling finished.

Maya sat across from him and studied the options. The wildly irresponsible plan involved four nights in New Orleans. The responsible plan was dinner downtown. The middle plan was a weekend in the mountains.

“I don’t want to spend the whole weekend worrying about the roof,” she said. A contractor had recently warned them it might not survive another heavy winter.

Ben closed the travel tab. “Fair. But I also don’t want our big celebration to be ordering Thai food and falling asleep during a documentary.”

“That was your birthday,” Maya said.

They laughed, and the tension eased.

By noon, they had designed their own compromise. They would return to Ohio for one night, using airline miles and staying with Ben’s sister. The baseball season was over, but the stadium offered weekend tours. Afterward, they would visit the diner where they had talked until midnight on that first date.

On the actual anniversary, they kept things simple. They cooked pasta, opened a bottle of wine they had been saving, and exchanged letters instead of gifts. Ben wrote about the first time Maya called their bungalow “home.” Maya wrote about how he always warmed her side of the bed in winter.

Later, they sat on the back steps while their dog wandered through the yard.

“Ten years,” Ben said.

Maya leaned against him. “And we still have the roof fund.”

“And New Orleans someday.”

She raised her glass. “That sounds optimistic.”

He touched his glass to hers. “My favorite budget.”


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad. At the top he had written, in careful block letters, TEN YEARS.

“That looks ominous,” she said, taking the chair across from him.

Their anniversary was three weeks away—the date they had met at a friend’s backyard barbecue in Columbus, Ohio. They weren’t married, though they had shared a home for seven years, along with a stubborn cat and a mortgage. Usually they celebrated with dinner, but ten years felt too important for their standard reservation at the Italian place downtown.

Ben proposed a long weekend in New York. Maya liked the idea until they checked airfare and hotel prices. She reminded him that the water heater had started making a knocking sound.

“So, Manhattan or hot showers?” he asked.

“Romance is complicated,” she replied.

They spent the morning trading possibilities. Maya suggested hosting a party, but Ben admitted he didn’t want to spend their anniversary cleaning the house and worrying about whether everyone had enough to eat. He suggested returning to the park where they’d first said “I love you,” but Maya pointed out that late October in Ohio could mean sunshine, sleet, or both.

Eventually, Ben turned the legal pad around. “What if we take Friday off, drive to Hocking Hills, and rent a cabin for two nights?”

Maya considered it. They could hike, cook dinner together, and leave their phones in a drawer. It was affordable, close enough that bad weather wouldn’t ruin everything, and different from an ordinary weekend.

“Fireplace?” she asked.

“Fireplace and hot tub.”

“Book it.”

On their anniversary, they reached the cabin just before sunset. Ben opened a bottle of wine while Maya unpacked groceries. Later, they sat beside the fire and read aloud from old messages they had saved.

Some were tender; others were embarrassingly practical. They laughed until Maya rested her head on Ben’s shoulder.

“It’s not New York,” he said.

“No,” she agreed, watching the flames. “It’s more like us.”


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three browser tabs competing for his attention: a mountain cabin, a restaurant downtown, and a website for custom photo books.

“Planning something?” she asked, setting down the grocery bags.

Daniel turned the screen toward her. “Ten years next month. I thought we should do more than order Thai food and fall asleep during a movie.”

They had been together since their last year of college and had shared their small house in Ohio for six years. They weren’t married, partly by choice and partly because every conversation about weddings ended with them agreeing they preferred spending money on the mortgage. Still, ten years felt substantial.

Maya unpacked apples while considering the options. The cabin looked peaceful, but boarding their elderly dog would be difficult. The restaurant was expensive and required reservations weeks ahead. The photo book made her smile, though she knew most of their pictures were buried across old phones and cloud accounts.

“What if we stay here?” she said. “Not in the ordinary way. We could recreate our first date.”

Their first date had involved cheap pizza, a walk beside the river, and a student jazz concert they had attended because admission was free.

Daniel laughed. “The pizza place closed.”

“We can make it. Or attempt to.”

Over the next few weeks, they divided the planning. Daniel found a jazz trio playing at a neighborhood arts center. Maya collected photographs and printed ten, one from each year. On the anniversary, they cooked lopsided pizzas, then exchanged short letters at the kitchen table. Neither letter mentioned marriage. Both described the life they had built: painted walls, shared bills, family emergencies, Sunday coffee, and the dog sleeping between them.

After the concert, they walked along the river under bare trees. Daniel took Maya’s hand.

“Same thing next year?” he asked.

“Maybe better pizza,” she said.

At home, they added a new photograph to the refrigerator: the two of them outside the arts center, older than on their first date, but still choosing each other.


On the first Sunday in October, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Our tenth anniversary,” he said. “Ideas, costs, and whether we’d need someone to feed the cat.”

They had shared the small house outside Minneapolis for six years, long enough to replace a water heater, argue about paint colors, and learn that neither of them wanted marriage simply because other people expected it. Still, ten years together felt important.

Lena sat across from him. “I don’t want a huge party.”

“Good,” Marcus said. “My party idea was mostly an excuse to buy barbecue.”

His list included a weekend in Chicago, dinner at an expensive restaurant, and a cabin near Lake Superior. Lena added “stay home and recreate our first date,” then crossed it out.

“Our first date was bad pizza and a movie we both hated,” Marcus reminded her.

“That’s why it would be authentic.”

They laughed, but the decision mattered more than either had expected. Marcus wanted to travel because their daily life had become crowded with work, bills, and repairs. Lena wanted something personal, not a generic romantic package.

After lunch, they walked through the neighborhood, talking without the pressure of the list. By the time they reached the park, they had a plan.

They booked a modest cabin on the North Shore for two nights. On the anniversary itself, they would hike to the overlook where they had stopped during their first road trip. Marcus would cook the pasta dish he had learned during the pandemic, and Lena would bring a small photo album she planned to make from ten years of ordinary pictures: Marcus asleep beside the cat, Lena holding a broken garden hose, both of them grinning in front of their newly painted house.

Back home, Marcus wrote the plan at the bottom of the page.

“No rings, no speeches?” he asked.

Lena leaned against his shoulder. “Maybe one speech.”

He nodded. “Short one?”

“Probably not.”

Together, they opened the cabin listing again and clicked “Reserve.”


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and a stack of takeout menus beside him.

“Are you planning our anniversary or avoiding it?” she asked, pouring coffee.

“Both,” Daniel admitted. “Ten years feels like it deserves more than Thai food and a movie.”

They had met at a friend’s barbecue in Portland, Oregon, and moved in together three years later. Marriage had never seemed urgent to either of them. They shared a mortgage, a dog, and a complicated system for dividing household chores. Still, their tenth anniversary felt important.

Maya sat across from him. “I don’t want a big party. Everyone will assume it’s secretly an engagement.”

Daniel laughed. “And my mother will bring champagne just in case.”

They considered a weekend at the coast, but the dog-friendly hotels were booked. Daniel suggested an expensive restaurant downtown. Maya pointed out that neither of them enjoyed dressing up or paying for valet parking.

“What if we go back to where we met?” she said.

“The barbecue happened in Lena’s old rental. Strangers live there now.”

“Not the house. The neighborhood.”

Together, they built a plan. They would spend Saturday walking through their old part of town, stop at the coffee shop where they had their first date, and buy ingredients for dinner at the farmers’ market. Daniel wanted to recreate the peach cobbler Maya had brought to the barbecue. Maya proposed opening the bottle of wine they had saved from their first vacation.

On the anniversary, rain forced them under one umbrella. The coffee shop had become a hardware store, and the market had no peaches. They bought apples instead.

That evening, they cooked side by side in their own kitchen. Daniel burned the crust slightly; Maya dropped an apple slice for the dog. Before dinner, they exchanged handwritten letters—his idea, though he looked embarrassed when she cried.

“To ten years,” Maya said, raising her glass.

“And to not needing a perfect plan,” Daniel replied.

Outside, rain tapped the windows. Inside, their imperfect cobbler cooled on the counter, and the home they had made together felt like the right place to celebrate.


On a rainy Thursday evening in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of tea and a legal pad between them. Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away, and they had been postponing the question of how to celebrate.

“We could finally go to New Orleans,” Daniel said. “Four nights, good food, no work emails.”

Maya sat across from him and studied the numbers he had written down. Airfare had climbed since they first discussed the trip. Their water heater had also started making a noise that neither of them trusted.

“I want to go,” she said, “but I don’t want to spend the whole time worrying about the credit card.”

Daniel nodded. They had bought their small house outside Minneapolis two years earlier, though they still weren’t married. Friends sometimes treated that as a temporary condition, but Maya and Daniel didn’t. Their life together was in the mortgage statements, the shared grocery list, and the muddy paw prints their dog left across the floor.

Maya pulled the pad toward her. “What if we stay here, but make it feel different?”

They began listing ideas. Daniel suggested returning to the neighborhood restaurant where they had their first date. Maya proposed taking Friday off and driving north to Lake Superior. They could rent a modest cabin for one night, hike if the weather held, and bring the old photo album Daniel had made after their first year together.

“And we should do something for the house,” Daniel added. “Not romantic, exactly, but lasting.”

They settled on planting a maple tree in the backyard the following Sunday. It was something they had discussed since moving in.

On their anniversary, they ate dinner at the same cramped Italian restaurant where they had once split an entrée because they were broke. The next morning, they drove north through red and gold woods. At the cabin, Maya read aloud from the notes tucked into the photo album, while Daniel laughed at his younger self’s earnest handwriting.

Back home, they planted the maple together. The ground was cold and stubborn, so they took turns with the shovel. When the tree finally stood upright, Maya pressed soil around its base while Daniel held the trunk steady.


On a rainy Tuesday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Dinner, trip, or party?” he asked.

Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away. They had been together since graduate school and had shared their small house outside Baltimore for six years, but they had never married. Their anniversaries mattered to them precisely because there was no official date stamped on a certificate.

Maya sat across from him. “A party sounds exhausting.”

“And a trip sounds expensive,” Daniel said.

They had already discussed New York, a cabin in West Virginia, and a restaurant downtown where the tasting menu cost nearly as much as their monthly grocery bill. Maya wanted the day to feel significant. Daniel wanted it to feel like them.

“What if we stay home?” he said. “But not in the usual way.”

Maya glanced toward the living room, where laundry waited on the couch. “You mean with clean sheets and no baskets in sight?”

“That could be part of the package.”

They began making a plan. In the morning, they would walk the trail where they had gone on their first date, even if it rained. In the afternoon, they would cook the complicated mushroom lasagna they had attempted during their first year together. Daniel would buy a good bottle of wine. Maya would print photographs from each year and hang them along the dining-room wall.

Then she added one more idea: they would each write a letter about what they hoped the next ten years would hold.

Daniel hesitated. “That sounds dangerously sincere.”

“You’ll survive.”

On the anniversary, the trail was muddy, and the lasagna took an hour longer than expected. One photograph fell behind the radiator, and Daniel burned the garlic bread. But after dinner, they exchanged letters at the kitchen table.

Neither letter mentioned weddings. Both mentioned the house, their aging parents, more travel, and growing old together.

Maya reached across the table. “This feels important.”

Daniel took her hand. “It is.”

Outside, rain tapped the windows. Inside, their ordinary home looked briefly transformed—not by decorations, but by the life they had chosen to notice.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into three columns: “Trip,” “Party,” and “Something Else.”

Their tenth anniversary was six weeks away. They had lived together for seven years in a small house outside Minneapolis, collecting shared furniture, utility bills, and traditions, but they had never agreed on how to mark a milestone this big.

“A party would be nice,” Ben said. “We could invite everyone who’s put up with us.”

Maya smiled, then looked toward the window. “I don’t want to spend the whole night refilling ice and worrying whether people are having fun.”

Ben crossed out “rent extra chairs.” Maya added “expensive” under “Trip.” Airfare had risen, and their aging furnace had started making a metallic rattle.

They spent the morning comparing cabins along Lake Superior, private rooms at restaurants, and even courthouse wedding packages, which made them both laugh nervously. Marriage came up every few years, but neither wanted an anniversary decision to become a referendum on it.

After lunch, Maya pulled a shoebox from the hall closet. Inside were ticket stubs, old birthday cards, and a receipt from the diner where they had first met. Ben found a photograph of their empty living room on moving day, both of them sitting on the floor with takeout containers.

“What if we stay here?” he asked.

Maya raised an eyebrow. “For our big romantic anniversary?”

“We make the house the point. Fix the furnace, then spend one night pretending we’re interesting.”

Together they formed a plan. On Friday, they would return to the diner and order the same meals they had eaten ten years earlier. On Saturday, they would host brunch for close friends, using mismatched dishes and borrowing folding chairs from a neighbor. That evening, after everyone left, they would open the shoebox, add letters they had written to each other, and drink the bottle of champagne Ben’s sister had given them when they bought the house.

It wasn’t dramatic, but it felt honest.

Maya wrote “home” across the legal pad. Ben circled it twice.


On the first Saturday in October, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad.

“What’s the list for?” she asked.

“Our ten-year anniversary,” he said. “I thought we should decide before every restaurant in Chicago is booked.”

They had lived together for six years, first in a cramped apartment above a laundromat and now in a small bungalow they were slowly repairing. They weren’t married, mostly because neither felt strongly about it, though relatives occasionally treated this as an unfinished conversation.

Lena sat across from him. On the pad, Marcus had written: fancy dinner, weekend trip, party, new water heater.

She laughed. “One of these is not romantic.”

“Hot showers are romantic.”

Their anniversary fell on a Wednesday, and both had deadlines at work. A trip sounded exhausting. A party sounded expensive. The restaurant Marcus suggested required a deposit and served portions Lena described as “decorative.”

“What did we do on our first date?” Marcus asked.

“Walked along the lake, ate tacos, and missed the last train.”

“You blamed me.”

“You said you knew the schedule.”

“I was confident, not informed.”

They decided to recreate the date on the following Saturday, with one improvement: they would check the train times.

That afternoon, they made reservations at the same taco place, which had moved two blocks and become brighter and more crowded. Lena ordered a small lemon cake from their neighborhood bakery. Marcus found an old photograph of them by the lake and tucked it into a secondhand frame.

On their anniversary night, they stayed home. They replaced the leaking kitchen faucet together, arguing briefly over the instructions, then ate takeout on the back steps. Marcus gave Lena the photograph. She handed him an envelope containing two train passes and a note: “Ten years, and I’d still miss it with you.”

He read it twice, smiling.

“Saturday,” she said, leaning against him. “Lake, tacos, cake. No speeches.”

“Agreed,” Marcus said. “But we’re also buying the water heater.”

Lena raised her paper cup. “To practical romance.”

He tapped his cup against hers.


On the morning of their tenth anniversary, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Please tell me that isn’t a budget meeting,” she said.

“It’s a celebration meeting,” Ben replied. “With a budget.”

They had shared their small house outside Minneapolis for seven years, long enough that their lives had become a collection of practical decisions: whose turn it was to shovel, whether the furnace could survive another winter, and how much to spend on groceries. They had never married, partly from indifference to ceremony and partly because there had always seemed to be something more urgent to handle.

Maya sat across from him. Their anniversary marked ten years since their first date at a neighborhood diner that had since closed. She wanted the day to feel significant, but the resort she had bookmarked cost nearly as much as their property-tax bill.

“What if we don’t go anywhere?” Ben suggested. “We could finally plant that maple tree.”

Maya looked through the window at the bare patch beside the fence. They had talked about planting a tree when they bought the house, then postponed it through renovations, job changes, and one expensive plumbing disaster.

“A tree isn’t exactly romantic,” she said.

“It could be,” Ben said. “If I dig the hole.”

She laughed, then proposed they spend the afternoon planting it and use the money they saved for dinner downtown. Ben added one condition: before dinner, they would visit the lake where they had taken their first walk together.

That Saturday, they chose a young red maple at a local nursery. Maya steadied the trunk while Ben filled the hole, and together they pressed the soil down with their boots. Afterward, they stood on the porch, muddy and tired, imagining its branches reaching above the roof.

At the lake, Ben handed Maya a small envelope. Inside was a printed photograph of the house on the day they bought it.

“No ring?” she teased.

“No ring,” he said. “But maybe a bench under the tree someday.”

Maya slipped her hand into his. “Put it in the budget.”


On the first Saturday in October, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table comparing hotel prices. Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away, and they had promised themselves they would do something more memorable than takeout and a movie.

“What about New Orleans?” Marcus asked, turning his laptop toward her.

Lena studied the total. “I love the idea. I don’t love the credit card bill.”

They had shared their small house outside Columbus, Ohio, for six years, along with a nervous rescue dog and a collection of mismatched furniture. They weren’t married, partly because neither felt urgency about it and partly because every conversation about a wedding ended with them calculating what else the money could buy.

Marcus closed the laptop. “Okay. No flights. What would actually feel special?”

Lena poured coffee and sat across from him. She suggested a fancy restaurant downtown. Marcus pointed out that their anniversary fell on a Tuesday, when Lena usually worked late. He proposed celebrating the following weekend, but she disliked treating the date as interchangeable.

Their discussion followed them through grocery shopping and yard work. By afternoon, they had a plan.

On Tuesday, Marcus would leave work early and pick up dinner from the Ethiopian restaurant where they had gone on their first date. Lena would ask her manager to shift her hours. They would eat at home, using the blue dishes they normally saved for guests, and open the bottle of wine Marcus’s sister had given them when they bought the house.

That weekend, they would drive to Hocking Hills, rent a modest cabin for one night, and hike the trail where Lena had first told Marcus she could imagine building a life with him.

“Two celebrations,” Marcus said. “Still cheaper than New Orleans.”

“And the dog can come,” Lena added.

On their anniversary, rain tapped against the windows. Marcus lit candles while Lena arranged the food. Before eating, they exchanged handwritten letters—her idea, though he had taken it seriously.

Nothing about the evening looked extravagant. Yet when Lena read what Marcus had written about their ordinary mornings, repaired fences, and shared plans, she reached across the table.

“This feels like us,” she said.

Marcus squeezed her hand. “That was the point.”


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with a legal pad, two mugs of coffee, and the expression he usually wore while comparing health insurance plans.

“Our tenth anniversary shouldn’t require a spreadsheet,” she said.

“It’s not a spreadsheet. It’s a list.”

The list had two columns: **Go Somewhere** and **Stay Home**.

They had met ten years earlier at a friend’s crowded birthday party in Chicago. Since then, they had moved twice, adopted a nervous gray cat, and bought a small bungalow outside Milwaukee. They had never married, partly because neither felt strongly about it and partly because life kept presenting more urgent expenses.

Maya wanted to take the train back to Chicago, stay in a nice hotel, and eat at the restaurant where they’d had their first real date. Daniel liked the idea, but the furnace had begun making a metallic rattle, and he worried about spending several hundred dollars before winter.

“We always postpone the fun thing,” Maya said, not angrily, but with enough weariness that Daniel put down his pen.

“And I always worry the furnace will die the minute we order dessert,” he replied.

They sat quietly while the cat pawed at a twist tie under the refrigerator.

Finally, Maya suggested a compromise. They would take a day trip to Chicago, visit the neighborhood where they first lived, and have dinner at the old restaurant—but return home that night. Daniel added that they could each choose one stop without telling the other.

On the anniversary, Maya led him to the used bookstore where he had once spent an entire rainy afternoon. Daniel took her to the lakefront bench where, years ago, she had admitted she was afraid to move in with him.

At dinner, they ordered the same pasta they had shared on their first date. Back home, Daniel replaced the kitchen’s flickering bulb while Maya opened a bottle of sparkling wine.

“To ten years,” she said.

“And to the furnace surviving another week,” he added.

She laughed, leaned against him, and raised her glass.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three tabs labeled “cabins,” “concert tickets,” and “tasting menu.”

“Planning a surprise?” she asked, setting down the grocery bags.

Ben closed the laptop halfway. “Trying to. Ten years feels like it deserves something bigger than takeout.”

They had been together since their senior year of college and had shared the small Minneapolis bungalow for six years. They weren’t married, partly because neither cared much about a ceremony and partly because life kept presenting more urgent expenses: student loans, a new furnace, Ben’s father’s medical bills. Still, the date of their first real date mattered to them.

Maya unpacked apples while Ben explained his options. A cabin on Lake Superior sounded romantic, but October weather could be unpredictable. The concert was for a band they had loved at twenty-two, though the tickets cost nearly as much as their monthly mortgage payment. The restaurant had twelve courses and a strict cancellation policy.

“What do you actually want to remember?” Maya asked.

Ben thought for a moment. “That we made it to ten years without becoming boring.”

“We are boring,” she said. “You own a favorite snow shovel.”

“It has an ergonomic handle.”

They laughed, and the pressure in the room eased.

Maya suggested they recreate their first date: coffee, a walk along the river, and cheap Thai food. Ben liked the idea but wanted one new element, something that acknowledged the life they had built rather than simply repeating the past.

Together, they settled on a plan. They would spend the morning at the coffee shop near their old campus, then return home and plant a serviceberry tree in the backyard. That evening, they would invite the two friends who had introduced them over for Thai food and champagne.

On their anniversary, the air was cold and bright. Ben dug the hole while Maya loosened the tree’s roots. When it stood straight, they stepped back, muddy and pleased.

“Ten years,” Ben said.

Maya took his hand. “And something that might outlast the furnace.”


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad.

“Ten years,” he said, underlining the words. “We should probably do something more memorable than takeout.”

Maya smiled and sat across from him. They had shared the small Minneapolis bungalow for six years, along with a stubborn cat and a mortgage in both their names. They had never married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony would make their commitment more real. Still, the anniversary of their first date mattered to them.

Daniel proposed a weekend in Chicago. Maya liked the idea until they checked hotel prices. She suggested a dinner party, but Daniel reminded her that hosting meant spending the evening washing dishes and worrying about whether everyone had enough to eat.

They made two columns: “Big Adventure” and “Actually Relaxing.”

“What did we do on our first date?” Daniel asked.

“Walked around the lake because neither of us wanted to pay for another coffee.”

“And you complained about your shoes.”

“They were new.”

By noon, they had a plan. On Saturday morning, they would return to the lake where they had met, wearing better shoes. They would bring coffee from the same café, if it was still open, and take a photograph near the bench where Daniel had first made Maya laugh. That evening, they would cook together at home: mushroom risotto, roasted squash, and the chocolate cake Maya loved but rarely made.

They also agreed to exchange letters—not gifts—about the decade they had shared and what they hoped for next.

On their anniversary, rain began halfway around the lake. Daniel opened a tiny umbrella that barely covered either of them, and Maya laughed so hard she spilled her coffee.

Back home, they cooked in damp socks, bumping hips at the stove. Later, over uneven slices of cake, they read their letters aloud.

Neither had planned a grand declaration. Instead, both had written the same simple hope: more years in the house, more ordinary Sundays, and more chances to choose each other.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three browser tabs labeled “Cabins,” “Concerts,” and “Tasting Menu.”

“Planning a secret?” she asked, setting down the groceries.

“Not anymore.” He turned the screen toward her. “Ten years next month. I thought we should do something big.”

They had been together since their mid-twenties and had shared the small Minneapolis bungalow for six years. Their anniversary usually meant takeout and a movie, but ten years felt different. Friends sometimes asked when they planned to marry. Maya and Daniel had discussed it honestly and decided they were content without a wedding, though they still wanted to honor what they had built.

Maya unpacked apples while Daniel listed possibilities: a long weekend on Lake Superior, tickets to a touring Broadway show, dinner at a restaurant where reservations vanished within minutes.

“All good,” she said. “But what do you actually want?”

He paused. “Time with you that doesn’t feel rushed.”

She nodded. Her hospital schedule had been relentless, and Daniel had spent much of the year renovating the basement after work. A trip sounded appealing, but arranging pet care and taking time off would add stress.

They made coffee and sat with a notebook. Maya suggested recreating their first date at the bowling alley, then inviting close friends to the house for dessert. Daniel proposed planting a maple tree in the backyard, something they could watch grow. By noon, they had a plan that felt both celebratory and manageable.

On their anniversary, they bowled badly, laughing when Daniel’s ball rolled into the gutter exactly as it had ten years earlier. Back home, they planted the maple beside the fence, taking turns with the shovel. That evening, friends arrived carrying pies and sparkling wine.

Before everyone left, Maya and Daniel stood on the porch beneath a wool blanket. The young tree was barely visible in the dark yard.

“It doesn’t look like much yet,” Daniel said.

Maya leaned against him. “Neither did we, at first.”

He smiled and squeezed her hand. “Good thing we gave it time.”


On the first Saturday in October, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad. At the top, he had written: **Ten Years**.

Their anniversary fell on a Wednesday, and both of them had already used most of their vacation days. Lena managed a dental office in Columbus, Ohio, while Marcus worked maintenance for an apartment complex across town. A trip sounded romantic until they checked hotel prices and remembered the car needed new brakes.

“We could do dinner somewhere nice,” Marcus suggested.

Lena sat across from him. “We always do dinner.”

“True.” He drew a line through the idea. “Party?”

She pictured their small living room crowded with relatives asking, again, whether they planned to get married. They had built a life together—one mortgage, two cats, and a shared calendar full of ordinary obligations—but neither felt a wedding would make it more real.

“Maybe not a party,” she said.

They spent the morning listing possibilities. A weekend cabin was too expensive. A concert meant driving to Cleveland on a work night. Renewing vows made them both laugh, since they had never taken any.

Then Lena opened the hall closet and pulled out a dusty cardboard box. Inside were ticket stubs, birthday cards, and the receipt from the diner where they had eaten on their first date.

Marcus held up the faded slip. “Nine dollars for two breakfasts.”

“And you complained about the coffee.”

“It was terrible coffee.”

They decided to recreate that first day. On Wednesday, they left work early, met at the same diner, and ordered pancakes and eggs. Afterward, they walked through the city park where Marcus had once admitted he was nervous about meeting Lena’s mother.

At home, they opened the cardboard box and added new items: a photo from the park, the diner receipt, and a short note each had written about the past decade.

Before bed, Marcus taped an envelope to the box labeled **Open in Ten Years**.

Lena leaned against him and smiled. “So this is our tradition now?”

“If we remember where we put it.”

She pointed to the hall closet. “That’s why there are two of us.”


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad.

“I made a list,” he said.

Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away—not a wedding anniversary, since they had never married, but the date they had met at a friend’s crowded housewarming in Chicago. They had lived together for seven years, first in a narrow apartment above a bakery, then in the small Minneapolis bungalow they now owned together.

Maya sat across from him. Daniel’s list included a weekend at a lakeside resort, dinner at an expensive restaurant, and “finally host a big party?”

“A party sounds exhausting,” she said. “Also, the furnace made that noise again.”

Daniel nodded. The resort would cost nearly as much as the repair estimate. Still, neither wanted the anniversary to pass with takeout on the couch, as several recent milestones had.

Maya opened her laptop. “What if we go back to Chicago for one night?”

They checked train fares, hotel prices, and the schedule for the bakery near their old apartment. It was still open. So was the tiny jazz club where, on their third date, Daniel had spilled red wine on Maya’s coat and tried to clean it with cocktail napkins.

“Your technique made it worse,” she reminded him.

“I was under pressure.”

They booked two train tickets and a modest hotel room. For the anniversary itself, they decided to invite six close friends to their house for soup, bread, and cake. Daniel would make the soup; Maya would assemble a playlist from each year they had been together.

That evening, they carried two folding chairs into the backyard. The maple tree was turning orange, and the air smelled faintly of someone’s woodstove.

“It’s not very grand,” Daniel said.

Maya leaned her shoulder against his. “Chicago, dinner with friends, and a functioning furnace?”

“Hopefully.”

She raised her mug. “To ten years of practical romance.”

Daniel tapped his mug against hers. “And improved stain-removal skills.”


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and a stack of takeout menus beside him.

“Don’t tell me you’re working,” she said, setting down two grocery bags.

“I’m planning,” he replied. “Ten years deserves planning.”

Their anniversary was two weeks away—not their first date, exactly, but the day Maya had driven from Ohio to North Carolina with everything she owned packed into a hatchback. Daniel had been waiting outside the duplex they had rented together, holding a roll of paper towels and the wrong set of keys.

They had never married. At first, money had been tight; later, it simply hadn’t felt urgent. Still, ten years in the same home, through job changes, a flooded basement, and Daniel’s father’s illness, seemed worth marking.

Daniel turned the laptop toward her. He had found a cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains, expensive but quiet, with a porch and a woodstove.

Maya studied the photos. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “But that’s the weekend my sister needs help moving.”

He frowned, then nodded. “Right. I forgot.”

She began putting away groceries. “What if we celebrate here?”

“At home?”

“Not just at home.” Maya pulled an old envelope from a drawer. Inside were ticket stubs, receipts, and a faded photograph of them sitting on the floor of their first empty living room. “We could go back to the places that mattered. Breakfast at that diner where you asked me to move in. Walk around our old neighborhood. Then cook dinner together.”

Daniel smiled. “And buy the good wine?”

“The unnecessarily good wine.”

Over the next week, they planned the day together. Daniel made reservations at the diner. Maya assembled a playlist from each year they had lived together. They invited no one.

On the anniversary, rain canceled their planned walk, so they drove past the old duplex instead. That evening, they cooked pasta, opened the wine, and spread their keepsakes across the table.

Daniel lifted his glass. “To ten years.”

Maya touched hers to it. “And to making plans we can change.”

Outside, the rain continued. Inside, their house felt newly chosen.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three browser tabs advertising “romantic anniversary escapes.”

“Are we escaping?” she asked, setting down two mugs of coffee.

“That depends,” Ben said. “How romantic do you find a six-hour drive to a cabin with no cell service?”

They had been together for ten years and sharing their small Ohio house for four. Their anniversary fell on a Wednesday, between Maya’s parent-teacher conferences and a major deadline at Ben’s engineering firm. In earlier years, they had celebrated with concerts, long weekends, and once, disastrously, a camping trip during a thunderstorm. This anniversary felt more significant, but also harder to schedule.

Maya sat beside him. “I don’t want to spend half our weekend in traffic.”

Ben closed the cabin tab. “Fancy dinner?”

“We’ll both be exhausted by Wednesday.”

They considered a party, but neither wanted to clean the house for twenty people. They discussed exchanging gifts, then admitted they had no ideas. For several minutes, they drank their coffee and listened to the furnace click on.

“What if we redo our first date?” Maya suggested.

Their first date had been at a neighborhood diner, followed by a walk along the river. The diner still existed, though the old riverside path had been rebuilt after flooding.

Ben smiled. “Same order?”

“You hated the meatloaf.”

“I was trying to impress you by not complaining.”

“You complained for nine years afterward.”

They decided to take Friday off instead of forcing a celebration into Wednesday night. They would eat breakfast at the diner, walk the new river trail, and stop at the county clerk’s office—not for a marriage license, as Ben jokingly clarified, but to have domestic partnership and beneficiary documents notarized. They had postponed that practical task for years.

On Wednesday, they cooked pasta together and opened a bottle of wine at home. Ben gave Maya a printed photograph from their first date, recently found on an old phone. Maya handed him a card containing ten short memories, one from each year.

It was not an escape or a grand declaration. Still, as they stood barefoot in their kitchen, arguing affectionately about who had done the dishes last, the anniversary felt exactly like theirs.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three tabs labeled “coastal cabins.” Their tenth anniversary was two weeks away—not a wedding anniversary, as Daniel’s mother still occasionally called it, but ten years since their first date at a crowded taco truck in Portland.

“I thought we agreed not to spend too much,” Maya said, setting down the grocery bags.

“We did.” Daniel turned the screen toward her. “That’s why I’m looking at cabins with shared bathrooms.”

Maya laughed. They had bought their small house outside Tacoma three years earlier, and lately every extra dollar seemed to belong to the roof, the water heater, or the maple tree threatening the fence. Still, ten years felt important.

They unpacked groceries while considering options. Daniel wanted to leave town; Maya wanted something personal. A fancy restaurant sounded nice until they checked the prices. A party would mean cleaning the house and explaining, again, why they weren’t married.

“What if we redo our first date?” Maya suggested.

“The taco truck closed.”

“But the park is still there.”

By dinner, they had a plan. On Friday evening, they would drive to Portland, stay one night in a modest hotel, and find tacos near the park where they had eaten on a damp bench ten years ago. Each would bring one small gift, homemade or under fifty dollars. The next morning, they would visit the bookstore where Daniel had first realized Maya read the last page of novels before buying them.

On their anniversary, rain followed them south. They ate tacos under an awning, trading bites and arguing cheerfully about which salsa was hotter. Maya gave Daniel a printed booklet of photographs from each year they had shared. Daniel gave her a hand-drawn map of the homes they had lived in, ending with their current address.

Back at the hotel, they added one more rule to their plan: every tenth anniversary, they would return to the beginning—not to repeat it exactly, but to notice how far they had come.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Dinner, trip, or party?” he asked.

Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away. They had lived together in Columbus, Ohio, for seven years, in a narrow brick house where the upstairs floor creaked and the backyard tomatoes grew better than either of them expected.

Maya sat across from him. “A party sounds exhausting.”

“You said that about your birthday, and then you loved it.”

“I loved the party. I hated the week before it.”

Daniel crossed out “party.” A trip appealed to both of them, but Maya had recently started a new job and had little vacation time. A fancy dinner felt manageable, though not quite large enough for ten years.

They spent the morning suggesting ideas while doing chores. Daniel proposed renting a cabin for one night. Maya checked prices and frowned. Maya suggested returning to the lakeside diner where they had gone on their first date, but it had closed two years earlier.

While folding towels, Daniel said, “What if we make the day about places that are still here?”

They built the plan together. They would walk through the park where Daniel had first told Maya he loved her, buy lunch from the food truck that had catered their housewarming, and invite four close friends over for dessert. Maya wanted to bake the pear cake they had made during their first winter together. Daniel volunteered to handle dinner and clean the house.

On the anniversary, rain forced them to eat lunch under the park shelter. Their paper plates bent in the wind, and Maya laughed as Daniel chased a runaway napkin across the wet grass.

That evening, their friends arrived carrying flowers and an old photograph from the housewarming. After everyone left, Maya and Daniel sat on the kitchen floor with leftover cake.

“It wasn’t very grand,” Daniel said.

Maya leaned against his shoulder. “No. It was ours.”

He lifted his mug toward hers, and they toasted to ten years—and to planning the next one with fewer columns.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three tabs labeled “weekend cabins.” Their tenth anniversary was two weeks away, and neither of them had made a plan.

“I thought we agreed not to spend a fortune,” she said, setting down the grocery bags.

“We did. Then I saw a place with a hot tub.”

Maya leaned over his shoulder. The cabin was beautiful, but the total—after cleaning fees and taxes—was nearly seven hundred dollars.

Daniel closed the tab. “Okay. Not that.”

They had lived together in Columbus, Ohio, for six years, in a narrow blue house they rented from a retired teacher. They were not married, partly from inertia and partly because they disliked making decisions just because other people expected them to. Still, ten years felt important. They had met when Maya was twenty-eight and Daniel was thirty, and had since changed jobs, lost parents, adopted a stubborn beagle, and learned exactly how the other person loaded a dishwasher incorrectly.

“What if we go back to Cincinnati?” Maya suggested. “Same coffee shop, same park.”

“The coffee shop closed.”

“Of course it did.”

Daniel began putting away groceries while Maya checked their shared calendar. Between his Friday shift and her Monday meeting, they could manage one night away, but the dog sitter was unavailable.

They stood in the kitchen, disappointed by how quickly practical details had flattened the occasion.

Then Daniel said, “What if we stay here?”

Maya looked around. “In our own house?”

“We cook the meal from our first date. We take Louie on that long trail by the river. Phones off. And we finally open the wine your sister gave us.”

“The expensive one?”

“The one we’ve been saving for an undefined worthy event.”

Maya smiled. “Ten years is pretty worthy.”

On their anniversary, they walked six muddy miles with Louie, bought fresh pasta from the neighborhood market, and burned the garlic bread while dancing to an old playlist. After dinner, they sat on the porch beneath a borrowed patio heater.

Daniel raised his glass. “To not needing a cabin.”

Maya touched her glass to his. “And to choosing this on purpose.”

Inside, the smoke alarm chirped once more, and they both laughed.


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad.

“Ten years,” he said, underlining the words at the top. “That seems like it should involve more than takeout.”

Maya sat across from him, still wearing her running clothes. They had met at a friend’s trivia night, moved into their small house outside Minneapolis six years later, and never felt much urgency about marriage. Still, a decade together felt important.

Ben’s first idea was a long weekend in New York. Maya liked it until they checked flight prices. Her suggestion—a party in their backyard—fell apart when they remembered that October weather in Minnesota could mean sunshine, rain, or snow.

“What do we actually want?” she asked.

Ben looked around the kitchen they had painted twice, toward the hallway where their dog, Pepper, was asleep. “Something that feels like us.”

They spent the afternoon making a list. They wanted to dress up, eat somewhere memorable, and include the people who had watched their relationship grow. They also wanted time alone.

By dinner, they had a plan. On Saturday, they would invite twelve close friends and relatives to the neighborhood Italian restaurant where they had celebrated buying their house. Instead of gifts, they would ask everyone to bring a short memory or photograph. The next morning, Maya and Ben would drive north to a rented cabin on Lake Superior for two quiet days.

On their anniversary, the restaurant table filled with old pictures and stories. Ben’s sister recalled the first Thanksgiving Maya attended; their friend Luis produced a blurry photograph from trivia night. Maya laughed until she cried.

At the cabin the next day, they walked along the cold shoreline. Ben took a small envelope from his coat. Inside was a printed reservation for the same cabin the following October.

“No surprise proposal,” he said, smiling. “Just another year?”

Maya slipped her hand into his. “Another year,” she agreed, as the waves broke against the rocks.


On the Thursday before their tenth anniversary, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two browser windows open: one for a lakeside resort in Vermont and another for a new water heater.

“Romantic,” she said, setting down the groceries.

Daniel turned the laptop toward her. “The resort has fireplaces. The water heater has a twelve-year warranty.”

They had lived together in their small Ohio bungalow for six years, long enough for major appliances to become part of their shared calendar. The anniversary mattered to both of them, but so did the rusty tank groaning in the basement.

Maya unpacked tomatoes while Daniel explained the resort’s cancellation policy. She listened, then admitted she didn’t want to spend the weekend driving eight hours each way. Work had been exhausting, and what she wanted most was time with him—not an itinerary.

Daniel looked relieved. He confessed that the price made him nervous. “I kept thinking we’d be sitting by the lake, wondering if the basement was flooding.”

They began negotiating over dinner. Maya suggested returning to the neighborhood where they’d had their first date. The old Ethiopian restaurant was still there, though it had moved two blocks. Daniel proposed booking a downtown hotel afterward, somewhere close enough to take the bus so neither of them had to drive.

“And Sunday?” Maya asked.

“We buy the water heater.”

She laughed. “Nothing says ten years like efficient plumbing.”

On Saturday, they dressed more carefully than usual. At dinner, they shared lentils and remembered how, on their first date, Daniel had pretended to understand the menu and ordered something far hotter than he could tolerate. Later, in the hotel room, Maya gave him a small photo book filled with pictures of ordinary mornings, road trips, and half-finished home projects. Daniel gave her a handwritten letter and a keychain stamped with the coordinates of their house.

The next afternoon, they stood together in a hardware store comparing warranty terms. It wasn’t glamorous, but their anniversary had become exactly what they wanted: one night honoring where they had begun, and one practical choice for the life they were still building.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a notebook open between them.

“Ten years,” he said, tapping the page. “That seems like it deserves more than takeout.”

Maya smiled and sat across from him. They had shared the small house outside Minneapolis for six years, long enough for the floors to creak in familiar places and for the lilac bush they planted to reach the bedroom window. They had never married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony was necessary to prove what they had built.

Still, the anniversary mattered.

Ben proposed a weekend in Chicago. Maya liked the idea until they checked hotel prices and remembered the furnace had started making a metallic rattle. She suggested a party instead, but Ben pointed out that their closest friends had young children and crowded calendars.

“What if we stay here?” he asked. “But make it intentional.”

Together, they planned a day around their shared history. On the morning of their anniversary, they drove to the diner where they had eaten after their third date, when a thunderstorm had stranded them for two hours. The booths had been reupholstered, but the waitress still served cinnamon pancakes.

Afterward, they walked along the lake and traded small gifts. Maya gave Ben a printed map marking every home and apartment they had shared. Ben gave her a wooden box filled with ticket stubs, photographs, and notes he had saved.

That evening, they cooked mushroom risotto, opened a bottle of wine, and invited two longtime friends over for dessert. No speeches were planned, but Ben raised his glass anyway.

“To ten years,” he said, “and to choosing what fits us.”

Maya touched her glass to his. Later, after their friends left, they sat on the porch under a blanket. The furnace still needed repair, and Monday would bring work and errands. But for one quiet night, they let the life they had made feel like celebration enough.


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Dinner, trip, or party,” he said, tapping the headings. “Ten years deserves something.”

Maya smiled and slid into the chair across from him. They had shared the small house outside Minneapolis for six years, long enough for the maple tree they planted to shade half the porch. They weren’t married, by mutual choice, but their anniversary—the day of their first date—mattered to both of them.

“A party sounds exhausting,” she said. “And flights are expensive.”

Ben nodded. “Dinner?”

“At that place downtown?”

He hesitated. The restaurant was elegant, but the reservation would cost nearly as much as replacing their unreliable water heater.

Maya looked through the window at the backyard. “What if we stay home?”

Ben laughed. “Very romantic. We can listen to the heater make that banging noise.”

“No, listen.” She pulled the legal pad toward her. “We could cook the meal from our first date. Or try to.”

Their first date had been at a tiny Ethiopian restaurant that had since closed. Ben remembered being nervous enough to spill water across the table. Maya remembered that he had stayed late to help the server mop it up.

They spent the afternoon planning. Ben found a local market that sold injera, and Maya borrowed a cookbook from the library. They invited no one, but agreed to ask Ben’s sister to take their dog overnight. For a gift, each would choose five photographs—one from every two years—and write what they remembered on the back.

On the anniversary, the lentils came out too salty and the chicken took an hour longer than expected. They ate at nine, barefoot at their own table, passing photographs between them.

The last picture showed them painting the living room after buying the house. Maya had written, *I knew this was home when we argued about the color and kept painting anyway.*

Ben read it twice. Then he raised his glass.

“To ten years,” he said.

“And to fixing the water heater next weekend,” Maya added.

They laughed, clinked glasses, and reached for the same piece of injera.


On the morning of their tenth anniversary, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and three restaurant menus spread in front of him.

“I thought we said no gifts,” she said, nodding toward the small envelope beside his mug.

“It’s not a gift,” Ben replied. “It’s evidence.”

Inside was a faded receipt from the diner where they had eaten after moving into their first apartment together. They had been twenty-six, exhausted, and surrounded by unopened boxes. The receipt showed two grilled cheese sandwiches, one slice of pie, and a handwritten note from the server: *Good luck in the new place!*

Maya smiled. “You kept this?”

“It was in the junk drawer for nine years.”

They had been debating how to mark the anniversary for weeks. Maya wanted to take a long weekend in New Orleans. Ben, worried about an upcoming car repair and their rising property taxes, preferred something quieter. Neither wanted the day to feel ordinary, but they also didn’t want to turn it into a test of how much they were willing to spend.

“What if we recreate the first night?” Ben asked. “Diner food, boxes, no furniture.”

“We own furniture now,” Maya said.

“We could ignore it.”

That afternoon, they compromised. They booked one night at a small hotel downtown, close enough to return home if their elderly dog needed them. Before checking in, they stopped at the old diner. The booths had been replaced, and grilled cheese was no longer on the menu, but the same lemon pie sat beneath a plastic dome.

Over dinner, Maya pulled a folded sheet of paper from her purse. It listed ten things she hoped they would do in the next ten years: plant a tree, visit Montreal, learn to make pasta, finally paint the hallway.

Ben added, “Replace the water heater before it replaces itself.”

Back at the hotel, they ate pie from the carton and compared their lists. There was no proposal, no dramatic surprise. Just two people making plans, revising them, and laughing about the years already behind them.

It felt, Maya thought, exactly right.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Dinner, trip, or party?” he asked.

Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away. They weren’t married, though they had shared a small house in Columbus, Ohio, for six years, along with a stubborn orange cat and a mortgage in both their names. Some friends treated the anniversary of their first date as casually as a birthday. To Maya and Daniel, ten years felt worth marking.

“A party sounds exhausting,” Maya said, sitting across from him. “And if we take a trip, your sister can’t watch Pickles that weekend.”

Daniel crossed out “party” but left “trip” untouched. “We could go somewhere close. Hocking Hills? One night?”

Maya considered it. She had imagined something grander—New York, maybe, or the coast—but they had recently replaced the furnace. Pretending money wasn’t tight would only make the anniversary stressful.

“What if we stay here,” she said, “but recreate our first date?”

Daniel laughed. Their first date had been at a now-closed diner, followed by a walk during which they got lost and argued about directions.

“Romantic,” he said.

“We could improve it.”

Together they made a plan. They would cook pancakes for dinner, like the ones Maya had ordered that night, then walk along the Scioto Mile. Daniel suggested exchanging letters instead of gifts. Maya added that they should finally print some of the thousands of photos stored on their phones.

On the anniversary, rain ruined the walk. They ate pancakes in the living room while Pickles watched from the armchair. Daniel gave Maya a small album containing one photo from each year. Maya read him a letter about the ordinary life they had built: grocery lists, repairs, Sunday coffee, and all the choices that had kept them together.

Later, when the rain softened, they stepped onto the porch with two glasses of wine.

“It’s not New York,” Daniel said.

Maya leaned against him. “No. It’s ours.”

They stood there listening to cars hiss along the wet street, quietly pleased that neither of them had needed the day to look impressive for it to feel important.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Dinner, trip, or party?” he asked.

Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away. They had lived together in their small Minneapolis bungalow for six years, long enough for the floors to creak in familiar places and for every closet to hold something belonging to both of them. They weren’t married, a fact that sometimes confused relatives but rarely troubled them.

Maya sat across from him. “A party sounds exhausting.”

“And a trip sounds expensive,” Daniel said, tapping the page. Their furnace had started making an ominous rattle, and neither wanted to ignore it before winter.

They considered a fancy restaurant, then remembered their fifth anniversary, when a tasting menu had left them hungry enough to order pizza afterward. Maya suggested returning to the state park where they had taken their first weekend trip. Daniel liked the idea but pointed out that October weather could mean golden leaves or freezing rain.

“What if we stay home,” he said, “but make it feel deliberate?”

Together they planned a day built from pieces of their shared life. They would walk to the diner where they had eaten after signing the mortgage papers, visit the used bookstore they both loved, and cook the mushroom risotto Maya had attempted on their first anniversary. Daniel would choose the wine; Maya would make dessert.

On the anniversary, cold rain tapped the windows. They laughed at how neatly the weather had settled their debate. After breakfast, they bought each other books with a ten-dollar limit, then spent the afternoon cooking.

The risotto took longer than expected. Daniel stirred while Maya grated Parmesan and read aloud from the novel he had given her. Later, they ate by candlelight at their own scratched dining table.

It wasn’t dramatic, but it felt accurate: two people making plans, adjusting them, and choosing the same home again.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a spreadsheet open on his laptop.

“Please tell me you’re not budgeting our anniversary,” she said.

“I’m exploring options,” Daniel replied. “Some of which require budgeting.”

Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away—not a wedding anniversary, since they had never married, but the date they had met at a friend’s housewarming in Chicago. Over the years, they had marked it with concerts, road trips, and once, during the pandemic, an elaborate dinner eaten on their apartment floor.

Now they shared a small house outside Milwaukee, along with a nervous rescue dog and a mortgage that had recently become more expensive. Maya wanted to fly to New Orleans. Daniel, who had just paid for a new water heater, preferred something closer.

They spent the morning comparing prices. Maya suggested two nights at a boutique hotel; Daniel proposed a day trip to the lake. Neither idea felt quite right.

While making lunch, Maya noticed an old photograph on the refrigerator. It showed them ten years earlier, standing beneath a red maple in the park near their first apartment. Daniel was wearing the jacket she had always hated. Maya’s hair was bright blue.

“What if we went back?” she asked.

“To Chicago?”

“To that neighborhood. We could walk past the apartment, eat at the Thai place if it’s still there, and take another picture under the tree.”

Daniel smiled. “And stay one night somewhere decent?”

“Decent, not financially irresponsible.”

They booked a modest hotel near the train station and made a dinner reservation. Daniel arranged for their neighbor to watch the dog. Maya found the original photograph and tucked it into her wallet.

On their anniversary, rain followed them into the city. The Thai restaurant had become a pharmacy, and construction blocked the park entrance. For a moment, Maya looked disappointed.

Then Daniel opened his umbrella and offered his arm. “We can celebrate what survived,” he said.

They found another maple two blocks away and asked a passing teenager to take their picture. Later, over noodles at a crowded restaurant, they compared the new photo with the old one, laughing at everything that had changed—and quietly grateful for what had not.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Dinner, trip, or party?” he asked.

Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away. They had lived together for seven years in a small house outside Minneapolis, but they had never married. The date they celebrated was the night of their first real date, when a thunderstorm had trapped them in a neighborhood diner until midnight.

Maya sat across from him. “A party sounds exhausting.”

“I wrote that in the ‘against’ column,” Ben said, turning the pad around. Under PARTY, he had listed: cleaning, parking, Uncle Ray asking when we’re getting married.

Maya laughed. “Strong argument.”

A weekend trip sounded appealing, but their elderly dog, Pepper, needed medication twice a day, and neither of them wanted to ask a friend to manage it. Ben suggested an expensive restaurant downtown. Maya reminded him that they were replacing the furnace in November.

For a while, they drank coffee and listened to Pepper snore beneath the table.

“What did we actually like about that first date?” Maya asked.

“The pie,” Ben said. “And having nowhere else to be.”

That afternoon, they made a plan. On their anniversary, they would both take the day off. Ben would try to recreate the diner’s cherry pie, despite having never baked one. Maya would make grilled cheese and tomato soup, the meal they had ordered after discovering the diner’s kitchen was nearly closed. They would turn off their phones, walk Pepper around the lake if the weather cooperated, and spend the evening looking through old photographs.

They also agreed to buy one thing together: a wooden bench for the front porch, where they often stood balancing coffee cups because they had nowhere to sit.

Three weeks later, Ben’s pie leaked red syrup across the oven floor, and rain canceled the walk. Still, they ate dinner on the new bench under the porch roof, wrapped in blankets while Pepper slept between their feet.

Maya raised her mug. “Ten years.”

Ben touched his mug to hers. “And finally, outdoor seating.”


On a rainy Tuesday evening in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three restaurant menus scattered beside it. Their tenth anniversary was two weeks away, and neither of them had made plans.

“I thought we agreed not to spend a fortune,” she said, setting down a bag of groceries.

“We agreed not to spend a fortune on dinner,” Daniel replied. “Technically, a cabin is lodging.”

Maya laughed. They had shared the small Portland bungalow for six years, along with a stubborn cat and a mortgage in both their names. Friends sometimes assumed they were married. Their families occasionally asked when they would be. Maya and Daniel had stopped trying to explain that commitment, for them, was less about a ceremony than the life they had built.

Still, ten years felt important.

Over pasta, they compared ideas. Daniel wanted to revisit the coastal town where they had taken their first trip. Maya worried that an expensive weekend would leave them stressed afterward. She suggested hosting friends in their backyard, but Daniel admitted he wanted part of the day to belong only to them.

They finally found a compromise. On Saturday morning, they drove to the coast with coffee in travel mugs and a playlist from their first year together. They walked the windy beach, ate chowder at the same diner they remembered, and exchanged letters they had written the night before. Daniel’s made Maya cry; Maya’s made him laugh so hard that the waitress looked over.

That evening, they returned home to a backyard strung with borrowed lights. A dozen friends arrived carrying food, folding chairs, and old photographs. Maya gave a short toast about choosing each other repeatedly. Daniel added that choosing each other also meant accepting wildly different opinions about thermostat settings.

Later, after everyone left, they sat on the porch under a blanket. The celebration had cost less than the cabin and felt more like them: private and social, sentimental without being formal.

“Same plan in ten years?” Daniel asked.

Maya leaned against him. “Ask me in nine.”


On a rainy Thursday evening in Portland, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three browser tabs competing for his attention: a coastal hotel, a mountain cabin, and a restaurant with a six-week waiting list.

“Planning an escape?” she asked, setting down a bag of groceries.

“Our tenth anniversary is next month,” he said. “I thought we should do something memorable.”

They had been together since their late twenties and had shared the small craftsman house for six years. They had never married, partly because neither felt strongly about it and partly because life kept supplying other priorities: student loans, Daniel’s mother’s illness, a leaking roof. Still, ten years felt substantial.

Maya unpacked tomatoes while Daniel described a weekend at the coast. The hotel had fireplaces and ocean views. It also cost nearly as much as replacing their aging dishwasher.

“I’d enjoy it,” she said carefully, “but I don’t want us spending the whole weekend calculating what it cost.”

Daniel closed that tab. “Cabin?”

“Three-hour drive.”

“Fancy dinner?”

“We’d both be worried about spilling something.”

He laughed. “So what do you want?”

Maya considered the question. “A day that feels like us.”

They made a list on the back of an envelope. Breakfast at the diner where they had gone after their third date. A walk through the neighborhood where they first rented an apartment. Dinner at home, cooked together. Daniel suggested inviting friends for dessert; Maya suggested asking everyone to bring a photograph or memory from the past decade.

By the time the rain stopped, they had a plan. On the anniversary, they would also plant a Japanese maple in the backyard, in the bare spot beside the fence.

“It might outlive the house,” Daniel said.

“Or us,” Maya replied.

He reached across the table and took her hand. Their celebration would not be dramatic, but it would contain the things they had built their life around: familiar places, shared work, old friends, and something new they could watch grow.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table comparing hotel prices on his laptop. Their tenth anniversary was two weeks away, and they had promised to make a plan before another month disappeared into work, errands, and repairs to their aging house.

“What about the coast?” Daniel asked. “Two nights, ocean view.”

Maya leaned over his shoulder. The room looked beautiful, but the price made her laugh. “For that much, the ocean should come home with us.”

They had met at a friend’s game night, moved in together after three years, and bought their small Oregon bungalow after seven. They had never married, partly because neither felt strongly about it and partly because life kept presenting more immediate decisions. Still, ten years mattered to both of them.

Daniel suggested a party. Maya pictured thirty people balancing drinks in their narrow living room and shook her head. She proposed dinner at the Italian restaurant where they had gone on their first date, but Daniel reminded her that it had closed during the pandemic.

For a while, they sat quietly. Rain tapped the window above the sink.

“What do you actually want?” Maya asked.

Daniel closed the laptop. “A day that feels like us. Not something we’re supposed to do.”

So they built the plan together. They would take Friday off, drive to the state park where they had first camped, and hike the easy trail around the lake. On the way home, they would stop at a farm stand for apples and cider. That evening, they would cook pasta, open the bottle of wine they had been saving, and exchange letters about the past decade and the next one.

On their anniversary, the trail was muddy and the lake nearly hidden by fog. Daniel slipped once, and Maya caught his sleeve, laughing. Back home, the pasta sauce burned slightly while they read their letters aloud.

Neither letter contained a proposal or a grand promise. Both mentioned repainting the bedroom, traveling more, and growing old in the house.

“To ten years,” Daniel said.

“And whatever we decide next,” Maya replied, touching her glass to his.


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Our ten-year anniversary,” he said. “Ideas, costs, and likelihood that we’ll regret them.”

They had shared the small house outside Minneapolis for six years, but they still celebrated the date of their first meeting: October 18, when Daniel had offered Maya his umbrella at a crowded bus stop. This year felt important, though neither of them could explain why without making it sound like a substitute for a wedding anniversary.

Maya sat across from him. The list included a weekend in Chicago, dinner at an expensive restaurant, and “re-create first date,” followed by Daniel’s note: *Bowling alley permanently closed.*

“We could have a party,” Maya suggested. “Invite everyone who’s put up with us.”

Daniel smiled, then hesitated. “Would that feel too much like a reception?”

They had discussed marriage many times and agreed they were happy as they were. Still, other people sometimes treated their anniversary as unofficial, something less solid.

“Only if we rent a ballroom and make my father give a speech,” Maya said.

They spent the morning building a plan. On Friday, they would take the day off, ride the bus into the city, and visit the neighborhood where they had met. On Saturday, they would host dinner at home for twelve friends and family members. No formal invitations, no gifts, and no speeches unless someone genuinely wanted to make one.

Daniel proposed ordering food. Maya insisted they cook together. They compromised: homemade chili, bakery bread, and a cake neither of them had to decorate.

On the anniversary, rain began just as they reached the old bus stop. Daniel opened an umbrella, and Maya laughed when she saw it was the same battered green one.

“You kept it?”

“You keep everything,” he said. “I learned from you.”

That evening, they returned home damp and cheerful. Before the guests arrived the next day, they stood in their crowded kitchen, tasting the chili from the same spoon.

“Ten years,” Maya said.

Daniel squeezed her hand. “Let’s make it feel like ours.”

It already did.


On the week of their tenth anniversary, Maya and Ben kept circling the question of how to celebrate. They shared a narrow brick townhouse in Baltimore, along with two aging cats, a temperamental dishwasher, and a calendar crowded with work deadlines.

“We could go somewhere,” Maya suggested over breakfast. She scrolled through hotel listings while Ben packed his lunch.

Ben studied the prices and winced. “For that much, we could finally replace the patio furniture.”

“That is the least romantic sentence you’ve ever said.”

“Not true. Last year I asked if you wanted a new vacuum.”

Maya laughed, but the anniversary mattered to her. Ten years felt substantial, even if they had never married. She wanted to mark it in a way that didn’t disappear into the routines they had built together.

That evening, Ben found her in the backyard, measuring the cracked concrete patio. He sat on the steps beside her.

“What if we stay here,” he said, “but make it feel different?”

Together they developed a plan. They would take Friday off, turn off their phones, and revisit the places from their first year together. They started at the diner where they had met for their second date, ordering pancakes at noon. Then they walked through the art museum where Ben had first reached for Maya’s hand. At a neighborhood bookstore, they each chose a novel for the other.

Back home, they strung borrowed lights over the patio and cooked dinner together. Maya made the pasta dish she had attempted on their first anniversary; Ben prepared a salad and opened a bottle of wine they had been saving.

After dinner, he brought out a small wooden box. Inside were ten folded notes, each describing a year they had shared: the move, the job loss, the road trip, the cats, the ordinary Sundays.

Maya read them slowly. Then she handed him the book she had bought, with a letter tucked inside.

They did not make promises about the next ten years. Instead, sitting under the lights in their familiar backyard, they talked about what they wanted next—and agreed that, before anything else, they would replace the patio furniture.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad. At the top, he had written, “Ten Years.”

“That looks ominous,” she said, sitting across from him.

Their anniversary was three weeks away—the date of their first real date, at a crowded noodle shop in Seattle. They had never married, though they had shared a townhouse, a dog, and most of their furniture for six years.

Daniel tapped the pad. “I thought we should actually plan something instead of ordering takeout at nine.”

Maya smiled. “Takeout has served us well.”

They considered a weekend on the coast, but the dog-friendly hotels were expensive. Daniel suggested a party. Maya pictured cleaning the house before and after thirty people and shook her head.

“What do you want it to feel like?” she asked.

He paused. “Like we noticed. Like ten years didn’t just happen while we were paying bills.”

That answer softened her. She admitted that she wanted something private, but not ordinary. Together, they made a list: revisit the noodle shop, walk through the neighborhood where they had first rented a basement apartment, and exchange letters about the decade they had built.

On the anniversary, rain streaked the windows. The noodle shop had changed owners, but the tables were still too close together, and Daniel still ordered more than he could finish. After dinner, they drove past their old apartment. Someone had placed pumpkins on the steps.

Back home, Maya lit candles while Daniel opened a bottle of sparkling wine. They sat on the living-room floor because the dog had claimed the couch.

Daniel read his letter first. His voice caught when he described their first night in the townhouse, eating pizza among unopened boxes. Maya’s letter thanked him for making commitment feel less like a ceremony and more like a daily practice.

They raised their glasses.

“To ten years,” Daniel said.

“And to noticing,” Maya replied.

Outside, the rain continued. Inside, nothing had changed, which was exactly what made the evening feel important.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three tabs labeled “cabins,” “restaurants,” and “train tickets.”

“Planning an escape?” she asked, setting down the groceries.

“Our tenth anniversary is in two weeks,” he said. “I thought we should do something memorable.”

They had been together since their final year of college and had shared their small Minneapolis house for six years. They weren’t married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony would make their commitment more real. Still, ten years seemed too important for their usual celebration of takeout and a movie.

Daniel turned the laptop toward her. A lakeside cabin in Wisconsin glowed on the screen. “Two nights, fireplace, no cell service.”

Maya smiled, then winced at the price. Their water heater had begun making ominous noises, and she had recently reduced her work hours to help her mother after surgery.

“It looks perfect,” she said, “but I’d spend the whole weekend thinking about the plumbing.”

Daniel closed the tab. “Fair.”

They unpacked groceries while trading ideas. A fancy tasting menu felt too formal. A party sounded exhausting. Driving to Chicago would cost almost as much as the cabin.

Then Maya pulled an old shoebox from the hall closet. Inside were ticket stubs, photographs, and the receipt from the diner where they had gone on their first date.

“What if we revisit the beginning?” she asked.

Together they planned a day around their shared history: coffee near their old campus, a walk along the river where Daniel had first told her he loved her, and dinner at the same diner, assuming it was still open. At home afterward, they would invite a few close friends for cake and champagne.

On the anniversary, rain ruined the river walk, and the diner had replaced its red booths with gray plastic chairs. But over pancakes at six in the evening, Maya slid a new photograph across the table: the two of them on their front steps.

“For the box,” she said.

Daniel tucked it beside the old receipt. “For the next ten years.”

“Let’s start with fixing the water heater,” Maya replied.

They laughed, and the celebration felt exactly right.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns: “Go Out,” “Stay Home,” and “Too Expensive.”

Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away. They had never married, partly from inertia and partly because neither cared for the institution, but ten years felt important. They had shared apartments in three states, adopted a nervous terrier, and bought their small house outside Minneapolis.

“I don’t want it to feel like just another dinner,” Maya said, sitting across from him.

Daniel tapped the page. “Weekend in Chicago?”

“We’d spend half of it driving.”

“Fancy restaurant?”

“Nice, but predictable.”

Maya suggested a party, then immediately pictured cleaning the house and making conversation with coworkers. Daniel proposed renewing their promises to each other, then laughed when Maya raised an eyebrow.

“We never made formal promises,” she said.

“Exactly. Very low-pressure renewal.”

They took the dog for a walk and talked as they circled the neighborhood. At the park, Maya remembered the motel near Lake Superior where they had spent their first trip together. The place itself was unremarkable, but they both remembered eating grocery-store sandwiches on the rocky shore because every restaurant had closed.

Daniel stopped walking. “What if we go back—not to the motel necessarily, but to the lake?”

They agreed on one night in Duluth. Maya would book a modest hotel with a view, and Daniel would plan a picnic if the weather held. Each would also bring a letter about one thing they appreciated in their life together and one hope for the next decade.

On their anniversary, the wind off the lake was sharp enough to ruin the picnic. They ate sandwiches in the car, the terrier trembling happily between them. Then they walked to the shore and read their letters aloud, occasionally interrupting to correct a date or tease each other.

It wasn’t ceremonial, exactly. Still, when Daniel reached for Maya’s hand, she squeezed his fingers and said, “Ten more?”

“At least,” he said.

They drove home the next morning, already arguing amiably about where to stop for breakfast.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Restaurant, weekend trip, or party,” he said, tapping the headings. “Ten years deserves something.”

Maya sat across from him, pulling her robe tighter against the draft in their Minneapolis bungalow. They had bought the house together four years earlier, though they had never married. Their anniversary marked the night they met at a friend’s crowded game night, when Daniel had spilled cider on her sweater and spent an hour helping her rinse it out.

“A party sounds exhausting,” Maya said. “And a trip sounds expensive.”

Daniel nodded. They had recently replaced the furnace, and the credit-card bill was still pinned to the refrigerator. “Dinner, then?”

Maya looked around the kitchen. The cabinet near the sink hung slightly crooked, and a basil plant leaned toward the window. Their dog, Pepper, slept under the radiator. Suddenly, a formal restaurant seemed wrong for an anniversary built from ordinary mornings.

“What if we stay here?” she said. “We could cook the meal we had on our first real date.”

Daniel smiled. “The terrible mushroom risotto?”

“It was only terrible because you forgot the broth.”

“You told me water would work.”

They found the old recipe in an email and planned the evening together. Daniel ordered good mushrooms from the neighborhood market. Maya borrowed string lights from her sister. They agreed to put their phones away and each choose five photographs from the past decade.

On the anniversary, they cooked side by side, arguing mildly about salt and laughing when the risotto stuck to the pan. After dinner, they spread their photographs across the table: camping trips, hospital waiting rooms, paint-splattered weekends, Pepper as a puppy.

Daniel raised his glass. “To ten years—and to fixing the cabinet eventually.”

Maya clinked hers against it. “Let’s not make promises we can’t keep.”

Outside, rain tapped the windows. Inside, the meal was imperfect, the house needed work, and both of them felt they had chosen exactly right.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Is this for taxes?” she asked.

“Our tenth anniversary,” he said. “Apparently I plan romance like a budget meeting.”

They had lived together for seven years in a small house outside Minneapolis, but they had never married. Their anniversary marked the night they met at a friend’s crowded apartment, where Daniel had spilled salsa on Maya’s coat and offered to pay for dry cleaning. Every year since, they had gone somewhere new. For ten years, they felt they should do something significant.

Maya sat across from him. “I don’t want a huge trip if we spend the whole time worrying about money.”

Daniel nodded. He had proposed a week in California, but flights and hotels were more expensive than expected. Maya had suggested a party, though the thought of hosting forty people made them both tired.

“What if we go back to where we met?” Daniel asked.

“The apartment building?”

“The city. We could stay downtown, see everyone, and have dinner at that Mexican place we went after your coat incident.”

Maya laughed. “It closed five years ago.”

“Right. Very symbolic.”

They spent the morning comparing ideas. Daniel wanted the day to feel different from an ordinary weekend. Maya wanted something private, with room to remember what the decade had actually been: job changes, her father’s illness, the furnace that failed during a January cold snap, and hundreds of quiet dinners in their kitchen.

Finally, Maya suggested renting a cabin on Lake Superior for two nights. They could invite close friends for lunch on Saturday, then spend Sunday alone hiking and cooking.

Daniel added one condition: they would each write a letter about the next ten years and read them by the fire.

“No rings hidden in dessert?” Maya asked.

“No surprise proposals,” he promised. They had discussed marriage often enough to know neither needed it to prove commitment.

That evening, they booked the cabin together. Daniel opened a bottle of wine, and Maya taped the reservation to the refrigerator. It was not extravagant, but it felt like them: practical, shared, and worth celebrating.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Dinner, trip, or party,” he said, tapping the headings. “Ten years deserves something.”

Maya sat across from him, still wearing her running shoes. They had lived in their small Minneapolis bungalow for six of those years, long enough for the floorboards to creak in familiar places and for the maple out front to shade most of the porch.

“A party sounds exhausting,” she said. “A trip sounds expensive.”

“So dinner?”

“Dinner sounds like we forgot until yesterday.”

Daniel laughed. Their anniversary marked the night they had met at a friend’s board-game gathering, not a wedding, and they sometimes disagreed about how much ceremony it deserved. His parents mailed them a card every year. Maya’s mother still called it “your dating anniversary,” though they had a mortgage, a shared health insurance plan through Daniel’s employer, and two aging cats.

Daniel suggested a weekend in Duluth. Maya opened her laptop and checked hotel prices. Then she proposed inviting the friends who had hosted the game night. Daniel pointed out that one now lived in Oregon and another had a newborn.

They went quiet, listening to the furnace click on.

“What if we stay here?” Maya said. “We could cook the meal we made on our first date.”

“The burned lasagna?”

“The improved version.”

Daniel added “home dinner” to the page. Together, they planned: lasagna, the cheap red wine they used to buy, and a walk around the lake where they had first talked seriously about living together. They would also spend money on one thing—a photographer for an hour, because they had hundreds of pictures of the cats and almost none of themselves.

On the anniversary, rain canceled the lake walk. They moved dinner to the porch, wrapped themselves in blankets, and watched water shine under the streetlights. The lasagna browned perfectly.

Daniel raised his glass. “Ten years, no party.”

Maya touched her glass to his. “No hotel bill.”

Inside, the photographer’s preview waited on Daniel’s phone: the two of them laughing in their own doorway, looking less like people marking time than people still choosing how to spend it.


On the morning of their tenth anniversary, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Please tell me that isn’t a budget for romance,” she said.

“It’s a list of options,” Marcus replied. “Romance has gotten expensive.”

They had lived together in their small Ohio bungalow for six years, long enough to know that surprises were risky. Lena hated crowded restaurants; Marcus disliked elaborate plans that depended on good weather. Still, ten years felt important. They had met at a friend’s barbecue, survived two job changes, Marcus’s knee surgery, Lena’s mother moving nearby, and the long winter when their furnace failed.

Lena sat across from him. His list included a weekend in Chicago, dinner at the Italian restaurant where they had celebrated their first year, and replacing the sagging patio chairs.

“Patio chairs aren’t an anniversary,” she said.

“They could be very nice patio chairs.”

She laughed, then admitted she did not want a trip. Work had been exhausting, and the thought of packing made her tired. Marcus confessed that the restaurant’s fixed anniversary menu cost more than he expected.

They carried their coffee to the back steps. The yard was damp from overnight rain, and a cardinal hopped along the fence. Lena suggested they recreate their first date: grilled corn, hamburgers, and the cheap strawberry cake they had bought from a grocery store.

“But better cake,” Marcus said.

“And good patio chairs,” she conceded.

That afternoon, they drove to a garden center and tested chairs until they found two wooden ones they both liked. On their anniversary, Marcus grilled while Lena made a playlist of songs from each year they had been together. They ate outside under string lights, then exchanged handwritten letters—her idea, though Marcus had secretly written three drafts.

Nothing about the evening looked extravagant. A neighbor’s lawn mower droned in the distance, and mosquitoes appeared before dessert. But when Marcus raised his glass, Lena tapped hers against it.

“To ten years,” he said.

“And to choosing the same home,” she added.

They sat in their new chairs until the lights came on inside the houses around them.


On the morning of their tenth anniversary, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“A highly romantic budget,” he said.

They had lived together in Columbus, Ohio, for seven years, long enough to share a mortgage, a dog, and strong opinions about dishwasher loading. They had never married, partly because neither felt the need and partly because life kept supplying more urgent expenses. Still, ten years together felt worth marking.

Lena sat across from him. “I was thinking New Orleans.”

Marcus tapped the page. Their water heater had started making ominous noises, and the dog needed dental work. A weekend flight, hotel, and meals would consume most of their emergency fund.

“I know,” Lena said, before he could explain. “But I don’t want the anniversary to feel like any other Tuesday.”

Marcus nodded. He had considered proposing a backyard dinner, but worried it would sound cheap rather than meaningful. “What if we go back to where we met?”

The bookstore café was still open, though it had moved two blocks downtown. They searched its website and discovered that the same local band they had heard on their first date was playing Friday night.

Lena smiled. “That’s almost suspiciously perfect.”

They made a plan together. On Friday, Marcus would leave work early and pick up a small cake from the bakery Lena loved. Lena would reserve a table at the café and arrange for their neighbor to walk the dog. They agreed to spend Saturday hiking at Hocking Hills, then return home to cook the pasta dish they had attempted—and badly burned—during their first year together.

That evening, they opened a bottle of wine and each wrote a letter about the decade they had shared. Marcus read his aloud in the living room. Lena cried, then laughed when he mentioned the dishwasher.

Their anniversary was not extravagant. But as they danced beside the café’s crowded little stage, Lena rested her head on Marcus’s shoulder. They had chosen something that felt like them: practical, affectionate, and built together.