On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Mark at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad.

“I thought we said no big gifts,” she said, eyeing the list in front of him.

“It’s not a gift list,” Mark replied. “It’s an options list.”

They had spent two decades making decisions in that kitchen of their Ohio home—mortgage rates, summer camps, whether the old maple needed to come down. Now their children were away at college, and the house felt both peaceful and strangely oversized.

Mark’s list included a weekend in Chicago, dinner at the expensive French restaurant downtown, and replacing the dented canoe they had sold years ago. Elena added “backyard party” and “do absolutely nothing.”

They discussed costs first. Chicago would be fun, but Elena had a work deadline. The restaurant looked elegant online, though neither of them wanted to dress up. A party sounded cheerful until Mark counted the relatives they would feel obligated to invite.

“What did we do for our first anniversary?” Elena asked.

Mark smiled. “Drove to Hocking Hills. Got lost. Ate sandwiches in the rain.”

“The cabin had ants.”

“You said they were rustic.”

By noon, they had a plan. They booked a modest cabin near the same state park for one night. On the anniversary itself, they would hike the trail they had attempted twenty years earlier, then pick up sandwiches from the grocery store. They also agreed to plant a second maple in the backyard when they returned, far enough from the house that its roots would never threaten the foundation.

That evening, they sat on the porch and called the children to tell them. Their daughter laughed at the sandwich tradition; their son promised to help dig the hole.

Mark raised his glass of iced tea. “To twenty years of practical romance.”

Elena touched her glass to his. “And better directions.”

Inside, the refrigerator hummed and the dishwasher clicked through its cycle. Their celebration would not be grand, but it felt like theirs: familiar, negotiated, slightly imperfect, and chosen together.


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Mark at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad between them. Rain tapped against the windows of their house in Columbus, Ohio.

“I made a list,” he said.

She sat down and read it aloud. “Dinner downtown. Weekend in Chicago. Replace the washing machine.”

“The washing machine is practical,” Mark said.

“It is not romantic.”

“It could be if we stop spending Saturdays at the laundromat.”

Elena laughed, then looked around the kitchen they had renovated themselves. Twenty years earlier, they had celebrated their wedding with a one-night stay at a roadside motel because it was all they could afford. Since then, anniversaries had often been squeezed between work, school concerts, and visits to aging parents. Their children were now in college, and the quiet house still felt unfamiliar.

“What do you actually want to do?” Mark asked.

Elena considered the question. “I want to remember why we chose each other before we became responsible for everything.”

Mark turned the legal pad over. Together, they began a new list.

They decided against the expensive hotel. Instead, they would drive to the state park where Mark had proposed, hike the same trail, and rent a small cabin for the night. Elena suggested bringing their old photo albums. Mark offered to cook dinner, provided she accepted that it might involve a cast-iron skillet and too much garlic.

“And no phones after six,” she said.

“What if the kids call?”

“They know how to leave messages.”

That afternoon, they booked the cabin. Then Elena went to the hall closet and found the blue backpack they had carried on early camping trips. One strap was frayed, but the zipper still worked.

Mark held it while she packed a thermos and two rain jackets.

“We’re really doing this?” he asked.

She kissed his cheek. “We’re marking twenty years by going somewhere we can hear each other.”

Outside, the rain continued, steady and ordinary. Inside, they stood together over the open backpack, deciding what they needed and what they could leave behind.


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Mark at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“What’s that?” she asked, tying her robe.

“Options,” he said. “Dinner downtown, weekend in Chicago, or finally replacing the deck.”

Elena laughed. “Nothing says romance like pressure-treated lumber.”

They lived in a modest house outside Columbus, Ohio, the same one they had bought when their daughter was a baby. Now she was away at college, and the quiet rooms made anniversaries feel different. In earlier years, they had hired sitters and rushed through expensive dinners. This time, neither wanted to pretend they were still those exhausted young parents.

Elena sat across from him. “I don’t want a big trip,” she said. “Not with your work schedule.”

“And I don’t want you cooking.”

“I wasn’t offering.”

Mark crossed out two items. They talked through the morning, interrupting each other, revising plans, and checking the weather. Elena suggested returning to the park where they had taken their wedding photographs. Mark proposed bringing sandwiches from the deli they used to visit when money was tight. Together, they decided to invite their daughter to join them by video call for a toast, but only briefly.

That afternoon, they drove to the park with a picnic basket and their old wedding album. The October air was cool, and the maple trees were turning red. Near the pond, they found the stone bridge from their photographs. It looked smaller than they remembered.

Mark set up his phone against the basket while Elena poured sparkling cider into two plastic cups. Their daughter appeared on-screen from her dorm room and raised a paper coffee cup.

After the call, Elena and Mark walked the path slowly, comparing the park to the pictures. They talked about the years ahead—retirement, travel, fixing the deck.

At sunset, Mark took Elena’s hand.

“So,” he said, “good anniversary?”

She squeezed his fingers. “Better than lumber.”

“Next weekend?”

“Next weekend,” she agreed.


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena 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 meeting,” she said.

“It’s an anniversary meeting,” he replied. “Completely different. There are pastries.”

They had talked for months about taking a trip to Italy, but the estimate in Marcus’s “dream” column was now competing with a leaking roof and their daughter’s first college tuition bill. Elena sat across from him in their Ohio home and tore a croissant in half.

“I don’t want us to spend the day pretending we’re not worried about money,” she said. “But I also don’t want to treat twenty years like any other Saturday.”

Marcus nodded. He had already priced a weekend in Chicago, a cabin near Hocking Hills, and dinner at the restaurant where he had proposed. The restaurant had closed six years earlier.

“What if we stay here?” he asked. “Not just stay home. Re-create things.”

Together, they made a plan. They would drive to the county courthouse where they had married, then visit the small park where their reception photographs had been taken. Afterward, they would cook the meal they had eaten on their first date—spaghetti, salad, and a grocery-store cheesecake neither remembered liking much.

That afternoon, Elena found their wedding album in a hall closet while Marcus searched the garage for a folding table. They set it up beneath the maple tree in the backyard and strung white lights along the fence. Marcus ironed a blue shirt; Elena wore silver earrings he had given her on their tenth anniversary.

At dinner, they took turns reading from letters they had written that morning. Marcus thanked Elena for staying steady during his unemployment. Elena thanked him for caring for her mother without ever calling it a sacrifice.

The cheesecake was still disappointing. They laughed, ate it anyway, and danced barefoot on the patio to the song from their wedding.

Later, Elena rested her head on his shoulder.

“Italy for twenty-five?” she asked.

Marcus looked toward the roof.

“Let’s put it in the dream column,” he said.


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Mark at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad.

“I made a list,” he said.

She glanced at it: dinner downtown, weekend at the lake, backyard party, new television.

“A television is not an anniversary celebration.”

“It could be if we watch our wedding video on it.”

Elena laughed and sat beside him. Their house in Columbus, Ohio, was quiet now that both children were in college. For years, anniversaries had been squeezed between soccer practices, work deadlines, and visits to aging parents. This one felt different—not grander, exactly, but more deserving of attention.

Elena wanted to return to the small inn in Pennsylvania where they had spent their honeymoon. Mark liked the idea, but after checking the cost, he frowned. Their water heater had begun making ominous noises, and neither wanted to put a romantic weekend on a credit card.

They considered a party, but Elena admitted she did not want to spend the evening refilling ice buckets. Mark confessed that crowds made him feel as though they were celebrating for everyone else.

“What did we actually do that first year?” he asked.

“Walked everywhere,” Elena said. “Because your car kept breaking down.”

“And we ate that terrible picnic by the river.”

“The sandwiches were terrible. The day was good.”

By noon, they had a plan. On Saturday, they would take the train downtown, visit the art museum where they had gone on one of their first dates, and walk along the river. They would pack sandwiches—better ones—and bring the old camera Mark had recently repaired. That evening, they would cook together at home and open the bottle of wine Elena’s sister had given them ten years earlier.

Mark crossed everything off the legal pad and wrote one new line: Spend the day remembering, not performing.

Elena read it, then added beneath it: And replace the water heater Monday.

They taped the page to the refrigerator, both satisfied that the celebration sounded like their marriage: practical, affectionate, and chosen together.


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Marcus at the kitchen table in their Ohio home, scrolling through hotel prices with a doubtful expression.

“I thought we could go back to Chicago,” he said. “Same hotel, dinner near the restaurant where I proposed.”

Elena poured coffee into two mismatched mugs. “That sounds lovely. It also sounds expensive.”

Their washing machine had started making a grinding noise, and their oldest daughter needed help with college books. Neither problem was an emergency, but together they made a weekend away feel irresponsible.

Marcus closed the laptop. “So we stay home and order pizza?”

“Pizza isn’t a punishment,” Elena said, smiling. Then she sat across from him. “What do we actually want to remember?”

They talked through breakfast. Marcus liked the idea of revisiting the past; Elena wanted the day to feel different from an ordinary Saturday. Eventually, she pulled a cardboard box from the hall closet. Inside were old photographs, ticket stubs, and letters they had written during the year Marcus worked in another state.

They made a plan together. In the afternoon, they drove to the park where they had taken their wedding pictures. The gazebo had been repainted, and the trees were much taller. Marcus brought a small tripod, and after several awkward attempts, they took a new photograph in nearly the same spot. Elena wore sneakers instead of satin shoes, and Marcus’s hair had gone mostly gray.

That evening, they cooked the pasta dish they had served at their wedding reception. Marcus handled the sauce while Elena set the table with their good dishes. Their children called on video, laughing when Marcus held up a scorched piece of garlic bread.

After dinner, Elena and Marcus exchanged letters they had written that morning—short, honest notes about what had surprised them, what had been difficult, and what they still hoped to do together.

Marcus read his twice before folding it carefully.

“This was better than Chicago,” he said.

Elena looked around their familiar dining room. “Not better,” she replied. “Just more like us.”


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into three columns: “Trip,” “Party,” and “Other.”

“You made a spreadsheet without the spreadsheet,” she said.

“The laptop felt too formal.”

They had talked for months about flying to Hawaii, but their daughter had started college in August, and the first tuition bill had changed the scale of their plans. A party sounded fun until Elena imagined cleaning the house before and after forty relatives came through it.

Marcus tapped the third column. “We could go back to where we got married.”

Their wedding had been at a small county park outside Columbus, Ohio, under a wooden shelter beside a pond. The shelter was gone now, damaged in a storm and replaced with a bright metal pavilion. Still, the park was only a two-hour drive from their home.

Elena smiled. “We should bring the same lunch.”

“The grocery-store cake?”

“And those terrible little sandwiches your brother made.”

“They weren’t terrible.”

“They had olives in them.”

By noon, they had a plan. They would drive to the park on Saturday, invite their daughter to join by video call, and bring a picnic inspired by their reception—but improved. Marcus volunteered to bake a small chocolate cake. Elena would make sandwiches without olives. They also agreed to exchange letters, not gifts, describing one ordinary day from their marriage they never wanted to forget.

That evening, they sat on the back steps while Marcus read the park’s reservation rules on his phone. Elena leaned against his shoulder and added one more idea: on the way home, they would stop at the diner where they had eaten after signing the mortgage on their house.

“Pie?” Marcus asked.

“Two slices,” she said. “We’re celebrating responsibly, not sadly.”

He booked the pavilion for three hours. It wasn’t Hawaii, and it wouldn’t impress anyone online. But it felt like them: practical, affectionate, and built from places where their life had actually happened.


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

“Dinner downtown,” he said, tapping the first column. “Weekend at the lake. Or we finally replace the back fence.”

Elena laughed and slid into the chair across from him. Their house outside Columbus was quiet except for the furnace clicking on. The fence had leaned toward the neighbor’s yard since spring, but she refused to let it become their anniversary present.

They had planned to visit Chicago, where they had spent their honeymoon, until Marcus’s mother needed help after knee surgery. Then the transmission in Elena’s car failed. Neither regretted changing course, but both felt the date deserved more than takeout and a movie.

“What do you remember most about the honeymoon?” Elena asked.

“The rain,” Marcus said. “And that tiny restaurant where we couldn’t afford dessert.”

“You ordered it anyway.”

“You looked disappointed.”

“I was cold.”

They smiled. After twenty years, even their disagreements had softened into shared stories.

Elena opened her laptop and found the restaurant. It had closed years ago, but an old review mentioned its signature chocolate torte. Marcus searched for a recipe while she checked the weather. Saturday would be clear.

By noon, they had a plan. They would take the train into Columbus, visit the art museum, and walk along the Scioto River as they had on one of their first dates. Then they would come home and attempt the torte together. They invited their two teenagers to eat a slice but asked for the afternoon to themselves.

Saturday was chilly and bright. At the museum, Marcus lingered over landscapes while Elena teased him for reading every label. Along the river, they traded memories—jobs lost, rooms painted, funerals endured, children welcomed—and admitted how differently they remembered some of them.

That evening, the torte sank in the middle. Marcus covered the crater with whipped cream, and Elena lit two candles.

“To plans that change,” she said.

“And to making one anyway,” he replied.

They ate at their scarred kitchen table, pleased that the day felt neither grand nor ordinary, but entirely theirs.


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad between them. Their house in Columbus, Ohio, was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and rain tapping the windows.

“I made a list,” Marcus said.

Elena sat across from him. “That sounds romantic.”

He turned the pad around. At the top he had written: *Dinner downtown, weekend in Chicago, backyard party, do nothing and order Thai food.*

Elena smiled. For weeks, friends had asked about their plans, and each suggestion seemed to require reservations, travel, or a level of enthusiasm neither of them felt after a busy year. Marcus’s mother had been ill. Elena had changed jobs. Their anniversary mattered, but celebrating it like a performance did not.

“I don’t want to do nothing,” she said. “But I don’t need Chicago.”

Marcus nodded. “I was hoping you’d say that. Hotels are ridiculous that weekend.”

They drank their coffee and looked around the kitchen they had renovated themselves, badly at first and then better. On the wall near the pantry were pencil marks showing their children’s heights, though both children now lived out of state.

Elena tapped the paper. “What if we stay home and cook the meal from our wedding?”

“The chicken that was dry?”

“The chicken can improve.”

Together they planned: roast chicken with herbs, green beans, the same lemon cake, and a bottle of wine from the California town where they had honeymooned. Marcus suggested inviting the children by video call for dessert. Elena proposed taking the Friday off so they could visit the county courthouse where they had obtained their marriage license, then walk along the river if the weather cleared.

That evening, Marcus ordered the wine while Elena searched for the cake recipe. Before bed, they stood in the kitchen comparing photographs from their wedding album.

“We looked terrified,” Marcus said.

“We were terrified,” Elena replied, leaning against him.

Their plan was modest, but it felt honest: a day built from places, food, and people that belonged to the life they had actually made.


On the morning of their twentieth wedding anniversary, Elena found Mark at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad.

“Are we making a budget or getting divorced?” she asked, tying her robe.

“Planning,” he said. At the top of the page, he had written: *Anniversary ideas.*

They lived in a small house outside Columbus, Ohio, where the gutters needed cleaning and the washing machine made an alarming thump. A trip to Italy had once been their dream for twenty years, but college tuition for their oldest and a recent furnace replacement had changed the math.

Mark had listed a weekend in Chicago, dinner at an expensive steakhouse, and “something spontaneous.”

Elena laughed. “You can’t put spontaneity on a list.”

“You can if you need reservations.”

She sat across from him and added her own idea: return to the state park where they had spent their honeymoon. It was only two hours away. They could rent a cabin, hike the same trail, and eat at the diner where Mark had dropped a slice of blueberry pie on his only good shirt.

“The cabins probably have Wi-Fi now,” he said.

“That’s not a selling point.”

They checked availability together. One cabin remained for the following weekend. Mark hesitated over the price, and Elena reminded him they had spent more than that fixing the garage door.

They booked it.

That afternoon, they pulled an old photo album from the hall closet. Mark found the honeymoon picture: Elena grinning beside a waterfall, his stained shirt partly hidden behind her backpack. She found a more recent photo of them repainting the living room, both exhausted and speckled with blue.

“We should take another one at the waterfall,” she said.

“Same shirt?”

“Absolutely not.”

On their anniversary evening, they cooked spaghetti at home and opened a modest bottle of wine. The trip would come later. For now, they ate on the back porch while neighborhood children rode bicycles past.

Mark raised his glass. “To twenty years.”

Elena touched hers to it. “And to planning something spontaneous.”

This time, he let her have the last word.


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad between them. Their house in Columbus, Ohio, was quiet except for the furnace clicking on.

“I thought we could make a plan,” he said.

Elena smiled. Marcus planned everything, including celebrations meant to feel spontaneous. On the pad he had written three options: a weekend in Chicago, dinner at the Italian restaurant where they had gotten engaged, or a backyard party with friends and family.

She sat across from him and wrapped both hands around her mug. “Chicago sounds nice, but I don’t want to spend our anniversary rushing through airports.”

“We could drive.”

“That’s still twelve hours in the car.”

“Fair.” He crossed it out.

The restaurant was tempting, though they hadn’t been there in years. Elena checked the menu on her phone and laughed at the prices. Marcus suggested the backyard party, but she reminded him that hosting meant cleaning for two days and washing dishes afterward.

They grew quiet. Through the window, they could see the maple tree they had planted when they bought the house. It was taller than the roof now. Beneath it sat the weathered bench Marcus had built for their tenth anniversary.

“What if we stay home?” Elena said. “Not just do nothing. Really stay home.”

Together, they made a new list. They would order dinner from the little Lebanese place they both loved, open the bottle of wine Elena’s sister had given them, and look through old photographs. Before sunset, they would walk around the neighborhood where they had raised their children and watched neighbors come and go.

That evening, Marcus carried their food to the backyard while Elena set candles on the patio table. After dinner, they sat on the bench under the maple tree. Marcus handed her a small envelope. Inside was a printed reservation for a cabin near Lake Erie in October.

“A delayed anniversary trip,” he said. “No airport.”

Elena leaned against him. “And no party cleanup.”

They laughed, listening to the leaves move overhead, pleased that the celebration felt like their marriage: practical, negotiated, and warmer than either of them had planned.


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

“Dinner out, weekend away, or party,” he said, tapping the headings. “I made a budget.”

Elena smiled. Their home in Columbus, Ohio, still felt half-finished after years of repairs: paint samples leaned behind the toaster, and the back porch needed new boards. A grand celebration sounded appealing, but so did not putting it on a credit card.

They considered a restaurant downtown where they had celebrated their tenth anniversary. Marcus liked the idea of dressing up; Elena pointed out that the fixed-price menu cost almost as much as the porch lumber. A weekend in Chicago was next, but neither wanted to spend six hours driving on Friday after work.

“What if we stay here?” Elena asked. “Not just stay home like any other Saturday. Make it ours.”

Together they planned a day around places that had mattered to them. They would eat breakfast at the diner where Marcus had proposed, walk through the park where they had taken their wedding photographs, and pick up ingredients for the pasta they had learned to make during their first year of marriage.

Marcus added one more idea: they could invite their two children, now in college, to join by video call during dessert. Elena suggested opening the box of letters they had written to each other before the wedding but rarely reread.

On the anniversary, rain canceled the park walk. Instead, they drove past their first apartment and laughed at how small its windows looked. At home, Marcus rolled pasta dough while Elena made sauce. The noodles came out uneven, and one candle refused to stay lit.

After dinner, they sat on the back porch under a blanket, listening to rain strike the old boards. They read their letters aloud, pausing often to explain forgotten jokes.

“This isn’t what we pictured,” Marcus said.

Elena leaned against him. “No,” she replied, looking through the kitchen window at the home they had built together. “It’s better. It’s accurate.”


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Mark at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad between them. Rain tapped against the windows of their home in Columbus, Ohio.

“I made a list,” Mark said.

Elena sat down and read his ideas aloud: dinner downtown, a weekend in Chicago, new patio furniture.

“You put patio furniture on an anniversary list?”

“We’ve talked about it for three years.”

She laughed, then turned the pad over and wrote, “Something we’ll remember.”

They had married young, after meeting at a community college night class. Their first apartment had unreliable heat and a view of a laundromat. Since then, they had raised two children, changed jobs, lost parents, and bought the modest brick house where they now sat. Their anniversary felt too important for an expensive meal they would forget by winter.

Mark suggested revisiting the small park where he had proposed. Elena liked the idea but wanted to include the life they had built since then. Together, they planned a day: breakfast at the diner they used to visit after class, a walk through the park, and dinner at home with their children, who were both away at college but could come back for the weekend.

“What about gifts?” Mark asked.

Elena looked toward the backyard, where a storm had damaged the maple tree they planted when their daughter was born.

“Let’s plant another tree,” she said. “One for the next twenty years.”

On Saturday, they bought a young red maple from a local nursery. Mark dug the hole while Elena loosened the roots and checked the depth. They argued briefly about whether the tree was straight, stepped back, adjusted it together, and finally agreed.

That evening, after dinner, their children brought out an old photo album. Mark and Elena sat shoulder to shoulder, laughing at faded pictures of bad haircuts, rented apartments, and family vacations.

Later, they stood by the window, looking at the slender tree in the dark yard.

“It looks small,” Mark said.

“So did everything when we started,” Elena replied, taking his hand.


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Mark at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad.

“I thought we weren’t exchanging gifts,” she said, sitting across from him.

“We’re not.” He turned the pad around. At the top, he had written: **What should we do?**

They had discussed a weekend in Chicago, renewing their vows, and hosting a dinner for friends. But their daughter had just started college, the furnace had made an ominous rattling sound, and neither of them wanted to spend the anniversary worrying about money.

Elena added “picnic at Lake Monroe” to the list. It was where they had gone on their third date, back when they lived in a cramped apartment and shared one unreliable car.

Mark smiled. “Do you remember the ants?”

“I remember you dropping the entire pie.”

“The ants came after.”

They decided to return to the lake on Saturday. Mark offered to pack lunch, while Elena searched the hall closet for the old photo album they rarely opened. Together, they chose a picture from that third date: Mark squinting into the sun, Elena laughing beside him, both of them thinner and unsure of almost everything.

Saturday arrived cool and bright. They drove an hour through southern Indiana, listening to songs from the year they married. At the lake, they spread a blanket beneath an oak tree. Mark unpacked sandwiches, strawberries, and—carefully—a small apple pie.

After lunch, Elena handed him an envelope. Inside was a copy of the old photograph and a new note: “I’d choose you again, even knowing about the furnace.”

Mark laughed, then took out his own surprise: a simple silver frame for the picture.

They asked a passing family to take a new photo of them in the same spot. This time, their hair was grayer, their faces fuller, and their shoulders leaned together without thought.

On the drive home, they agreed to print both photographs and hang them side by side. It was not a grand celebration, but it felt true to the life they had built: practical, imperfect, and shared.


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

“Are we planning a vacation or negotiating a treaty?” she asked.

Marcus slid a mug toward her. “Both may require the same budget.”

They lived outside Columbus, Ohio, in the three-bedroom house they had bought when their oldest daughter was a baby. Now both children were away at college, and the house felt strangely quiet. For months, they had talked about marking the anniversary with a trip to Italy. But the furnace had failed in February, tuition was due again in August, and neither of them wanted to put a celebration on a credit card.

Elena studied the list. Marcus had written: *Italy, weekend in Chicago, dinner downtown, backyard party.*

“A party sounds like work,” she said.

“I’d do the grilling.”

“You always say that, and then I spend two days cleaning.”

He nodded, accepting the point. They sat without speaking for a moment, listening to the refrigerator hum.

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

Elena smiled. “We drove to Hocking Hills. It rained the entire weekend.”

“And the cabin roof leaked.”

“And you tried to cook steaks in a frying pan.”

“They were edible.”

“They were gray.”

By noon, they had a plan. They booked a small cabin near the same state park, this time with good reviews and a covered porch. They would hike if the weather held, bring groceries instead of eating out, and open the bottle of wine Elena’s sister had given them at their wedding.

That evening, Marcus found an old photograph from their first trip: Elena in a yellow raincoat, laughing beside a muddy trail. He placed it in a simple frame. Elena, meanwhile, wrote their children a message asking them to join a video call on the anniversary morning.

It was not Italy, and neither pretended otherwise. But when they compared the cabin reservation, the framed photograph, and the family call on the calendar, the plan felt like theirs—practical, affectionate, and built from the life they had actually shared.


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

“I thought we said no big party,” she said, taking the chair across from him.

“We did.” He turned the pad around. At the top he had written: *Twenty Years—What Actually Sounds Good?*

Their anniversary fell on a Thursday in October, and both had already taken Friday off from work. Friends had suggested a cruise, a catered dinner, even renewing their vows. But after replacing the furnace in their Ohio home that summer, neither wanted an expensive celebration.

Elena picked up the pen. “I’d like to go somewhere we can talk without checking the time.”

Marcus nodded. “And I want to do something connected to when we met.”

They had met at a volunteer cleanup along the Cuyahoga River. Elena had offered him sunscreen; Marcus had accidentally dropped the bottle into a bag of collected trash. The story had improved with retelling, but the basic facts remained.

They decided to spend Thursday evening at home. Marcus would cook the mushroom risotto he had attempted on their first anniversary, and Elena would find the old box of photographs in the hall closet. On Friday, they would return to the river trail, walk the same stretch, and donate to the conservation group that had organized the cleanup.

That evening, the risotto took longer than expected. Elena sat at the counter, reading aloud from notes they had once tucked into lunch bags. Marcus laughed so hard at one of his own earnest messages that he had to turn away from the stove.

Later, they carried dessert to the porch. The neighborhood was quiet except for a distant lawn mower and the rustle of dry leaves.

“Not exactly a cruise,” Marcus said.

Elena leaned against him. “No. Better for us.”

The next morning, they walked beside the river under a pale autumn sky. At the old meeting spot, they took a photograph together—not to recreate the past, they agreed, but to mark that they were still choosing what came next.


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

“I made a list,” he said.

She glanced at it: dinner downtown, weekend in Chicago, backyard party, renew vows.

“You made four lists,” she said, noticing the columns of prices and possible dates.

Marcus smiled. “I wanted options.”

Their home outside Columbus was quiet now that their daughter had left for college. For years, anniversaries had been squeezed between school concerts, work deadlines, and visits to aging parents. Twenty years felt different—not grand exactly, but earned.

Elena sat across from him and wrapped both hands around her mug. “I don’t want a party where we spend the whole night asking if everyone has enough ice.”

“Fair,” Marcus said, crossing out backyard party.

Chicago sounded exciting, but Elena had recently used most of her vacation time helping her mother recover from surgery. A fancy dinner was possible, though neither of them liked the idea of paying for a crowded room and rushing through dessert.

Marcus tapped the last option. “Vows?”

Elena considered it. Their original wedding had been large and formal, shaped by family expectations. What she remembered most clearly was not the ceremony but eating leftover cake with Marcus in their hotel room afterward.

“What if we go back to Hocking Hills?” she asked. They had spent their first married weekend there because it was all they could afford. “Rent a cabin. Take the old photo album.”

“And write each other something?” Marcus suggested.

“Not vows,” she said. “Maybe letters. About what we remember. And what we want the next twenty years to look like.”

He nodded slowly. “I like that.”

They spent the afternoon comparing cabins, laughing at listings that advertised “rustic charm” beside pictures of sagging porches. Eventually, Elena found a small place with a fireplace and a trail nearby. Marcus booked it before they could overthink the cost.

That evening, they cooked pasta together and opened a bottle of wine saved from Christmas. Their anniversary was still three weeks away, but the decision itself felt like part of the celebration: modest, mutual, and entirely theirs.


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

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Options,” he said. “Dinner downtown, a weekend in Chicago, or finally replacing the dishwasher.”

Lena laughed and sat across from him. Their house in Columbus, Ohio, was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rattle from the dishwasher they had complained about for three years.

“A dishwasher is not an anniversary celebration,” she said.

“It could be if we eat cake while installing it.”

They had once imagined marking twenty years with a trip to Italy. But their daughter had started college that fall, the furnace needed servicing, and Lena had recently reduced her hours at work to help her mother after surgery. Neither wanted to turn the anniversary into another expense they would worry about later.

Marcus tapped the paper. “What do you actually want to remember about it?”

Lena looked toward the hallway, where family photographs climbed the wall: their courthouse wedding, the first day in this house, birthday parties, camping trips, ordinary Christmas mornings.

“I want a day that feels like ours,” she said. “Not like we’re performing an anniversary.”

Together, they made a new plan. On Saturday, they drove to the neighborhood where they had rented their first apartment. The building’s brick had been painted gray, but the corner diner was still open. They shared pancakes in the same booth where they used to split meals when money was tight.

Afterward, Marcus suggested stopping at a garden center. They chose a young red maple and spent the afternoon planting it beside the back fence. Lena held the trunk straight while Marcus filled the hole, then they switched so she could pack down the soil.

That evening, they cooked pasta, opened a bottle of wine, and sat on the porch under a blanket. The new tree was barely visible in the fading light.

“In twenty years, it’ll shade the whole yard,” Marcus said.

Lena leaned against him. “Then we’d better stay long enough to see it.”

Inside, the dishwasher began its familiar rattle. They both laughed, and neither got up.


On the first Saturday in October, Elena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad between them. Their twentieth anniversary was three weeks away, and for months they had talked vaguely about taking a trip.

“I checked flights to New Orleans,” Marcus said. “They’re more expensive than I expected.”

Elena sat across from him in her bathrobe. Through the window, their maple tree had begun turning red. “I looked at hotels in Chicago. Same problem. And if we spend that much, I’ll worry the whole time.”

They had recently replaced the furnace in their Ohio home, and their younger daughter had started college. Neither wanted their anniversary to feel like another financial obligation.

Marcus drew a line down the center of the paper. On one side he wrote “trip.” On the other, “stay home.”

“What would staying home actually mean?” Elena asked. “Not just ordering pizza and falling asleep during a movie.”

He smiled. “Although that is historically accurate.”

They began listing ideas. Elena suggested returning to the small park where they had married, then having dinner at the Italian restaurant that catered their reception. Marcus proposed inviting their daughters and a few longtime friends for dessert afterward.

Elena hesitated. “I want part of the day to be just ours.”

“So do I,” he said. “Park and dinner alone. Everyone comes here later.”

Over the next two weeks, they planned together. Marcus called the restaurant and learned the original owner’s son now ran it. Elena found their wedding album and scanned several photographs. They cleaned the back porch, strung warm lights along the railing, and ordered a small version of their wedding cake—vanilla with raspberry filling.

On their anniversary, they walked slowly through the park, noticing that the gazebo had been repainted but still creaked under their steps. At dinner, they traded small gifts: Elena gave Marcus a repaired watch that had belonged to his father, and Marcus gave her a handwritten letter.

That evening, their home filled with familiar voices. Standing beside Elena on the porch, Marcus raised his glass.

“To twenty years,” he said.

Elena slipped her hand into his. “And to celebrating without pretending we’re different people than we are.”


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Marcus at the kitchen table with a yellow legal pad, two mugs of coffee, and three ideas written in block letters.

“Dinner downtown,” he read. “Weekend at the lake. Or finally fix the back porch.”

Elena laughed as she sat across from him. Their house in Columbus, Ohio, was quiet except for the furnace clicking on. The porch had needed work for years, but she had imagined something more romantic than lumber and paint.

Marcus turned the pad toward her. “I’m not voting yet.”

They talked through breakfast. A restaurant would be easy, but the place where they had celebrated their tenth anniversary had closed. The lake sounded peaceful, though boarding their elderly dog complicated the plan. The porch was practical, but Elena admitted she loved the idea of creating a place they could use together.

“What if we don’t just repair it?” she said. “What if we make it ours?”

By noon, they had a plan. They would spend Saturday replacing the loose boards and painting the railing. On Sunday evening—the date of their anniversary—they would eat outside, using the blue dishes from their wedding registry.

The work took longer than expected. Marcus measured one board incorrectly, and Elena spilled half a can of paint on the drop cloth. They argued briefly about whether the railing was level, then apologized while sharing sandwiches on the back steps.

On Sunday, their daughter stopped by with string lights and helped hang them along the roofline. After sunset, Elena carried out roasted chicken and a small chocolate cake. Marcus brought an old photo album and a bottle of wine they had been saving.

They ate beneath the new lights, turning pages and remembering apartments, job changes, sick parents, school concerts, and ordinary Tuesdays. The porch still smelled faintly of paint.

Marcus raised his glass. “Not exactly the lake.”

Elena looked through the kitchen window at the home they had built their life inside.

“No,” she said, smiling. “Better. We’ll still be here tomorrow.”


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

“I thought we said no gifts,” she said, eyeing the list in front of him.

“We did. This is not a gift. It’s planning.”

They had been debating for weeks. Marcus wanted to return to the small inn in Vermont where they had spent their honeymoon. Elena liked the idea, but the roof on their Ohio home had started leaking near the chimney, and the estimate sat beneath a magnet on the refrigerator.

“We could still go,” Marcus said. “Just for two nights.”

Elena wrapped both hands around her mug. “And spend the whole time thinking about shingles?”

He smiled reluctantly. “Probably.”

Their anniversary fell on a Saturday, so they decided to stay home but make the day feel different. Together, they drove to the farmers’ market and bought peaches, bread, and an expensive wedge of cheese they would normally have passed by. Marcus chose flowers while Elena pretended not to notice.

That afternoon, they pulled a dusty box from the hall closet. It held photographs, ticket stubs, and letters from the years before text messages. They spread everything across the living room floor.

“Look at your hair,” Elena said, holding up a photograph from 2004.

“My hair?” Marcus replied. “You wore orange sunglasses.”

“They were fashionable.”

“They were visible from space.”

They laughed until Elena had tears in her eyes. Later, they cooked dinner together—roast chicken, potatoes, and peach cobbler—and carried it to the back porch. The neighborhood was quiet except for lawn sprinklers and a distant dog.

Marcus raised his glass. “Not Vermont.”

“No,” Elena said, looking at the house they had painted twice, the maple tree they had planted, and the repaired screen door he kept promising to replace. “But this is where most of it happened.”

After dinner, they wrote one memory from each year of their marriage on separate slips of paper and placed them in an empty coffee tin.

“Open it at twenty-five?” Marcus asked.

Elena nodded. “After we fix the roof.”

He reached across the table for her hand. “That sounds like a plan.”


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

“Dinner, weekend trip, or party,” he said, tapping the headings. “I’m trying to be organized.”

Elena smiled and sat across from him. Their house in Columbus was unusually quiet now that their daughter was away at college. For years, anniversaries had been squeezed between soccer practices, work deadlines, and visits from relatives. This one felt different.

“A party sounds exhausting,” Elena said. “And a weekend trip means spending half of it driving.”

Marcus crossed out both options. “Fancy dinner?”

They considered the new restaurant downtown, but Elena hesitated. Their anniversary marked more than the day they married. Twenty years earlier, they had moved into this same house with folding chairs, borrowed dishes, and barely enough money for the mortgage.

“What if we stay here?” she said. “Not just order pizza and watch television. I mean really celebrate the house, too.”

Together, they made a plan. They would cook the meal served at their wedding—roast chicken, green beans, and lemon cake—then eat on the back porch beneath strings of lights. Marcus suggested inviting their daughter by video call for the cake. Elena proposed opening the box of letters they had written during their first year of marriage but rarely reread.

That afternoon, they shopped for ingredients. Marcus chose flowers resembling Elena’s old bouquet, while she found a bottle of wine from the year they bought the house. At home, they worked side by side. He chopped vegetables; she mixed cake batter. When the sauce burned, they opened the windows and laughed until the smoke alarm stopped.

After sunset, they carried dinner outside. The porch boards were weathered, and the maple tree they had planted as a sapling shaded half the yard.

Marcus raised his glass. “To twenty years.”

Elena touched her glass to his. “And to staying long enough to see what grows.”

Their celebration was smaller than either had first imagined, but it felt exactly the right size for the life they had built together.


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

“I thought we agreed: no big party,” she said, sitting across from him.

“We did.” He turned the pad around. At the top he had written, *Things We Actually Want to Do.*

They lived outside Columbus, Ohio, in the same brick house they had bought when their daughter was a toddler. Now she was away at college, and the quiet rooms made the anniversary feel both important and strangely private.

Elena picked up the pen. “We could go back to Chicago,” she said. They had spent their honeymoon there, walking along the lake in borrowed coats because neither had expected October to be so cold.

Marcus smiled, then glanced toward the window. The gutters needed cleaning, and the maple tree was dropping leaves across the yard. “Or we could finally replace the dishwasher.”

“That is not an anniversary.”

“It would improve our marriage.”

She laughed, and he crossed it off.

They considered a weekend at a bed-and-breakfast, dinner at an expensive steakhouse, and renewing their vows. Each idea felt either too elaborate or too ordinary. Finally, Elena opened a drawer and took out a faded photograph of them beside Lake Michigan, young and squinting into the wind.

“What if we take the train up Friday,” she said, “stay one night, and walk the same route?”

Marcus studied the picture. “Can we afford a decent hotel this time?”

“We can afford two nights.”

He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Then two nights.”

That afternoon, they booked the tickets together. Elena chose a small hotel near the river; Marcus reserved dinner at a neighborhood Italian restaurant instead of the famous place they had once been unable to afford.

On their anniversary, they left the house before sunrise. As the train pulled west through Indiana, Elena rested her head on Marcus’s shoulder. He opened the legal pad and added one last item beneath their list:

*Come home to the life we built.*

She read it, took the pen, and checked the box.


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

“Dinner, weekend trip, or party,” he said, tapping the headings. “I’m trying to be organized.”

Elena smiled and sat across from him. Their house in Columbus was quiet now that both children were away at college. For years, anniversaries had been squeezed between soccer games, work deadlines, and visits from relatives. This one felt different—not grander, exactly, but more visible.

“A party sounds exhausting,” she said. “And a weekend trip means boarding the dog.”

Marcus crossed out “party.” “Dinner downtown?”

“We do that for birthdays.”

He nodded, then glanced toward the hallway, where framed family photographs covered one wall. Near the bottom hung a picture of them on their wedding day, standing outside the small apartment they had rented after the ceremony. Elena wore a simple cream dress; Marcus’s suit sleeves were slightly too long.

“What if we went back there?” he asked.

“The apartment?”

“The neighborhood. We could walk around, find that diner if it still exists.”

Elena considered it. They had lived there when money was tight and every purchase required discussion. Their first anniversary dinner had been grilled cheese because the car needed repairs.

“Let’s do that,” she said. “But afterward, I want to come home.”

On Saturday, they drove two hours to the old neighborhood. The diner had become a pharmacy, but the park remained. They ate sandwiches on a bench and traded memories, correcting each other’s details and laughing over the arguments that once seemed enormous.

That evening, back home, Elena took a frozen lasagna from the oven while Marcus opened a bottle of wine. They carried their plates to the porch.

“I thought twenty years would feel more dramatic,” Marcus said.

Elena rested her foot against his under the table. “It feels accurate.”

He raised his glass. “To accurate.”

She clinked hers against it. Inside, the dog scratched at the door, and both of them stood at the same time to let him out.


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

“I made a list,” he said.

She smiled. Marcus made lists for everything, from grocery runs to vacation packing. On the page, he had written: *Nice dinner. Weekend in Chicago. Replace patio furniture.*

“Patio furniture?” Elena asked.

“We’ve complained about those chairs for six summers.”

They lived in a modest brick house outside Columbus, Ohio, where they had raised two children, hosted countless Thanksgiving dinners, and once spent an entire winter arguing about the thermostat. Their anniversary felt important, but neither of them wanted to pretend they were people who enjoyed champagne towers or expensive resorts.

Elena sat across from him. “What if we did something connected to the house?”

Marcus glanced around the kitchen. “Like finally fixing the cabinet door?”

“No. Something less depressing.”

They talked through breakfast. A party seemed exhausting. A cruise cost too much. Their children suggested renewing their vows, but Marcus said he would rather not stand in front of an audience and cry.

Then Elena remembered the young maple tree they had planted when they moved in. A storm had split it five years earlier, leaving an empty patch beside the driveway.

“We could plant another tree,” she said. “One that might still be here for our fortieth.”

Marcus considered it, then added *maple tree* to the list.

That Saturday, they drove to a local nursery and chose a red maple with strong branches and bright autumn leaves. At home, they took turns digging, stopping often to argue amiably about whether the hole was wide enough. Elena steadied the trunk while Marcus filled in the soil. Then they watered it together.

That evening, they ordered Thai food and carried two sturdy dining chairs onto the porch. The old patio furniture could wait.

As the light faded, Marcus raised his bottle of beer toward the new tree.

“To twenty years,” he said.

Elena touched her glass to his. “And to making it to forty.”

Neither made a speech. They sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the leaves move in the warm Ohio wind.


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two cups of coffee and a yellow legal pad.

“A planning meeting?” she asked, smiling.

“We’ve reached the age where romance requires notes,” he said.

Their house outside Minneapolis was quiet now that both children were away at college. They had considered a trip to Hawaii, but replacing the roof that spring had emptied most of their travel fund. Elena suggested dinner at the Italian restaurant where Marcus had proposed. Marcus checked online and discovered it had closed six years earlier.

For a moment, the day seemed smaller than they had hoped.

Then Elena opened the hall closet and pulled down a dented cardboard box of photographs. They sat together on the living-room rug, sorting through two decades: their courthouse wedding, the first apartment with its unreliable radiator, newborn portraits, camping trips, school concerts, and one disastrous Thanksgiving turkey.

Marcus found a picture of their first home—a narrow blue duplex they had rented across town. “What if we go back to the neighborhood?” he asked. “Walk around, get lunch, see what’s changed.”

Elena added an idea of her own. They would each choose ten photographs and make a small album, leaving blank pages for the years ahead.

That afternoon, they drove to their old neighborhood. The duplex was now gray, and the corner grocery had become a coffee shop. They shared a sandwich there and wrote short captions for the photographs. Marcus remembered dates; Elena remembered details, like the song playing during their first dance and the color of the children’s rain boots.

At sunset, they returned home and cooked pasta together. Marcus lit two candles, while Elena placed the unfinished album between their plates.

They raised their glasses without making speeches.

“To what changed,” Elena said.

“And what stayed,” Marcus replied.

Later, they added one final photograph: the two of them at their own kitchen table, older, tired, and smiling.


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

“Dinner, trip, party,” he said, tapping the headings. “I’m trying to be organized.”

Elena smiled and sat across from him. Their house in Ohio was unusually quiet. Their daughter was away at college, and their son had an early shift at the grocery store. Rain traced the windows behind Marcus.

They had discussed taking a long weekend in Chicago, where they had spent their honeymoon. Marcus had found a hotel near the river. Elena had priced train tickets. But the water heater had failed in March, and the repair still sat on their credit card.

“We could go anyway,” Marcus said. “Twenty years only happens once.”

“That’s true,” Elena replied. “But I don’t want to spend the weekend calculating what every breakfast costs.”

He nodded, though she could tell he was disappointed. She reached across the table and turned the legal pad around.

“What if we stay here, but don’t treat it like an ordinary Saturday?”

Together, they made a new plan. They would drive to the state park where Marcus had proposed, pack the same kind of sandwiches they used to eat when money was tight, and ask their son to take a photograph of them before they left. That evening, they would cook dinner together and open the bottle of wine Elena’s sister had given them five years earlier.

Marcus added one more idea: each of them would write down ten memories from their marriage and read them aloud after dinner.

That afternoon, the rain stopped. At the park, the trail was muddy, and Elena’s shoes slipped twice. Marcus offered his arm, laughing when she reminded him that, during the proposal, he had dropped the ring in the grass.

Back home, they burned the garlic bread and overcooked the steak. Still, they lit candles, poured the wine, and read their lists. Several memories matched.

Elena raised her glass. “Chicago for twenty-one?”

Marcus clinked his against hers. “Already making a column.”


On the Thursday before their twentieth anniversary, Elena and Marcus sat at the kitchen table in their Ohio home, sorting through a stack of takeout menus and unopened mail. Rain tapped against the windows, and the dishwasher hummed behind them.

“We could go back to that hotel in Chicago,” Marcus suggested. “The one with the tiny room and the view of the brick wall.”

Elena smiled. They had spent their honeymoon there because it was all they could afford. “It’s probably a luxury condo now.”

Marcus checked his phone. The hotel still existed, but the weekend rates were higher than their first month’s rent. They laughed, then grew quiet. Their daughter had just started college, the furnace needed replacing, and neither of them wanted an anniversary celebration that would leave them worried about money.

“What do you actually want to do?” Elena asked.

Marcus looked around the kitchen they had remodeled together, slowly, over several summers. “I want to remember how we got here.”

They carried two mugs of tea into the living room and pulled an old storage box from the closet. Inside were photographs, concert tickets, birthday cards, and a receipt from the diner where Marcus had proposed. Elena found a picture of them standing in front of their first apartment, both wearing paint-stained clothes.

“The diner,” she said. “Is it still open?”

It was. On Saturday morning, they drove an hour south, arguing cheerfully over which playlist to use. At the diner, they ordered pancakes and coffee and asked the waitress to take their picture in the same booth.

Afterward, Elena suggested visiting their old neighborhood. The apartment building looked smaller than they remembered. They walked around the block, then sat in a nearby park and exchanged letters they had written the night before—one page each about what they were grateful for and what they hoped for next.

That evening, back home, Marcus cooked pasta while Elena set the table with their wedding china. They toasted beneath the kitchen light, not to the years behind them, but to the ordinary days that had filled those years—and to choosing them together.


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad between them.

“I thought we said no big party,” she said, pulling out a chair.

“We did.” Marcus tapped the pad. “This is not a guest list. It’s a list of alternatives.”

They lived in a modest brick house outside Columbus, Ohio, the same house they had bought twelve years earlier when their children were still small. Now one child was in college, the other finishing high school, and the rooms felt quieter than either of them expected.

Marcus had written down three ideas: a weekend in Chicago, dinner at the restaurant where he proposed, and replacing the sagging backyard deck.

Elena laughed. “Nothing says romance like pressure-treated lumber.”

“You complain about that deck every summer.”

“Because it tilts.”

They talked through the options while rain ticked against the windows. Chicago sounded fun, but the hotel prices made them wince. The restaurant had closed during the pandemic. The deck needed work, but Elena didn’t want their anniversary to become another household project.

After a while, she opened a drawer and removed a faded trail map. It came from the state park where they had spent their first anniversary, when money was tight and they had celebrated with sandwiches, a borrowed tent, and a bottle of grocery-store champagne.

“We could go back,” she said. “Just for the day.”

Marcus studied the map. “The forecast says clear next Saturday.”

They decided to pack the same kind of sandwiches, though Marcus insisted on better champagne. Their daughter agreed to take a photograph of them before they left, and their son promised to video-call from campus that evening.

The following Saturday, they hiked slowly, stopping often to identify birds and argue cheerfully about the route. At the overlook, Marcus poured champagne into two metal camping cups. Elena leaned against him, both of them looking across the autumn trees.

“It’s not very fancy,” he said.

She raised her cup. “Neither were we.”

They toasted to twenty years, the quiet house waiting for them, and whatever they would choose together next.


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

“I made a list,” he said.

She laughed. “Of course you did.”

Their house in Columbus was quiet except for the refrigerator humming and rain tapping the windows. Their daughter was away at college, and for the first time in years, they had no school concert, soccer game, or family obligation competing with the date.

Marcus slid the pad toward her. He had written: *nice dinner, weekend in Chicago, renew vows, backyard party.*

Elena studied the options. “A party sounds exhausting.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“And renewing vows feels too formal.”

“I knew you’d say that too.”

She pointed at him. “Then why is it on the list?”

“Because twenty years deserves more than takeout.”

They sat for a while, remembering their wedding: the overheated church, the missing cake knife, Marcus’s uncle dancing until his shoe split. What Elena remembered most clearly, though, was the tiny apartment they had returned to afterward, where they ate leftover cake on the floor because they owned only one chair.

“What if we stay here?” she said.

Marcus looked around their kitchen, puzzled.

“Not just stay home. Re-create that first night. We get the same kind of cake, order from that Italian place we used to love, and eat on the floor.”

“That restaurant closed ten years ago.”

“We can find another one.”

He smiled. “One chair?”

“Two. We’ve earned two.”

They spent the afternoon searching old boxes in the basement. Marcus found their wedding CD, and Elena discovered a photograph of them beside their dented blue sedan. That evening, they spread a blanket on the living-room floor, shared lasagna from foil containers, and played the songs from their reception.

Before cutting the small white cake, Marcus raised his glass.

“To everything that went wrong,” he said.

Elena touched her glass to his. “And everything we kept fixing.”

Outside, the rain continued. Inside the home they had built together, neither of them wished they were anywhere else.


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

“I thought we weren’t buying gifts,” she said.

“We’re not.” He turned the pad toward her. At the top, he had written: *What should we do?*

They lived outside Columbus, Ohio, in the same brick house they had bought when their daughter was a toddler. Now she was away at college, and the quiet sometimes felt luxurious and sometimes too large.

Elena sat across from him. “We could go somewhere. Chicago, maybe.”

Marcus nodded. “Or rent a cabin.”

They checked hotel prices, compared train schedules, and looked at photographs of cabins with hot tubs and suspiciously wide camera angles. After half an hour, Elena closed the laptop.

“I don’t want to spend the whole weekend trying to make it perfect,” she said.

Marcus leaned back. “What do you want?”

She glanced through the window at the maple tree they had planted after moving in. It was taller than the roof now.

“I want to remember what we actually built,” she said.

Together, they made a new plan. On Saturday, they would walk through their old neighborhood, eat lunch at the diner where they had gone after signing their mortgage papers, and visit the park where Marcus had taught their daughter to ride a bicycle. That evening, they would invite a few close friends to their house.

Marcus suggested ordering food, but Elena wanted to cook the pasta they had served at their small wedding reception. He agreed to make the sauce. They divided the shopping list and argued cheerfully about whether anyone still liked tiramisu.

On their anniversary night, after their friends had left, they carried two glasses of wine onto the porch. The sink was full, and one strand of patio lights had gone dark.

Marcus raised his glass. “Not perfect.”

Elena rested her shoulder against his. Inside, their home held photographs, scuffed floors, and the remains of dinner.

“No,” she said, smiling. “But ours.”


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Mark at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a legal pad divided into columns.

“Are we planning a vacation or filing our taxes?” she asked.

Mark smiled. “Both require a budget.”

They had talked for months about doing something memorable. Elena wanted to return to the small hotel in Santa Fe where they had spent their honeymoon. Mark liked the idea, but airfare from Ohio had climbed, and their water heater had started making an ominous knocking sound.

Elena sat across from him and studied the numbers. “I don’t want our anniversary gift to be a flooded basement.”

“Very romantic,” Mark said.

“Practicality is why you married me.”

“I thought it was your lasagna.”

They considered alternatives. A weekend at a nearby inn felt too ordinary. A large dinner with family would be joyful, but neither wanted to spend the evening hosting. Then Mark pulled a faded photograph from the legal pad. It showed them at a roadside overlook outside Santa Fe, windblown and laughing.

“What if we recreate the day instead of the place?” he asked.

Together, they made a plan. They would take Friday off, drive to Hocking Hills, and hike to an overlook. Elena would pack the same kind of sandwiches they had eaten on their honeymoon. Mark would bring their old camera. That evening, they would cook a Southwestern dinner at home and watch the grainy wedding video their daughter had recently converted to a digital file.

On Friday, the trail was muddy, and Mark complained theatrically about his knees. Elena slipped once and caught his arm. At the overlook, they asked a passing hiker to take their picture.

Back home, they burned the first batch of peppers and laughed through their wedding vows on the television. Later, Mark placed the new photograph beside the old one on the mantel.

They had not returned to Santa Fe, but the day felt honest: partly planned, partly improvised, and entirely theirs.


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

“Please tell me you’re not making a budget for romance,” she said.

“I’m making options,” he replied. “Romance has gotten expensive.”

They lived in a modest house outside Columbus, Ohio, where the gutters needed replacing and their younger daughter had just started college. For months, they had talked about taking a long weekend in New York. But when Marcus showed Elena the cost of flights, a hotel, and theater tickets, she sat across from him and studied the numbers.

“We could do it,” he said. “It’s twenty years.”

“We could,” Elena agreed. “But would we enjoy it while thinking about the gutters?”

Marcus laughed. “Probably not during the show.”

They carried their coffee onto the back porch. The maple tree they had planted after buying the house now shaded most of the yard. Elena suggested inviting their children home for dinner. Marcus wanted at least part of the day to belong only to them.

Together, they made a plan.

On Saturday, they drove to the neighborhood where they had rented their first apartment. The building’s brick had been painted gray, and the laundromat where they once spent Sunday evenings was now a bakery. They bought two pastries and ate them on a bench, remembering the broken radiator, their secondhand couch, and the night they stayed awake assembling a crib.

Later, they walked along the Scioto River and exchanged letters they had written the night before. Marcus’s letter thanked Elena for making their home feel steady even when life was not. Elena’s recalled the ordinary kindnesses she had never forgotten: packed lunches, scraped windshields, his hand finding hers during difficult conversations.

That evening, their children arrived with groceries. Marcus grilled chicken while Elena made the lemon cake from their wedding reception. After dinner, everyone watched old videos in the living room.

Before bed, Marcus pinned the bakery receipt beside their wedding photograph.

“Better than New York?” Elena asked.

He considered it. “Different.”

She leaned against him. “Different was what we needed.”


On the morning of their twentieth anniversary, Elena found Mark at the kitchen table with a legal pad, two mugs of coffee, and an expression usually reserved for tax season.

“I made a list,” he said.

Elena sat across from him in their Ohio home and read the options: dinner downtown, a weekend in Chicago, a backyard party, or “something sentimental,” underlined twice.

“Very specific,” she said.

They had been saving for new windows, and neither wanted to spend carelessly. Still, twenty years felt too important for takeout and television. Mark favored the restaurant where they had celebrated their engagement. Elena liked the idea but worried it would feel like reenacting someone else’s life. They were no longer twenty-eight, living in a one-bedroom apartment and splitting one dessert.

After work, they walked through their neighborhood, discussing possibilities. Mark suggested inviting family. Elena reminded him that hosting usually meant she cleaned for two days. She proposed a short trip. He pointed out that their elderly dog couldn’t easily be boarded.

At the corner, they passed the small public garden where they had taken wedding photographs. The place had changed: new benches, taller trees, a playground beyond the fence. Elena stopped near a maple.

“What if we came here?” she asked. “Just us. We could bring dinner.”

Mark looked around. “In October?”

“We own coats.”

They began building the plan together. Mark would order food from the old restaurant. Elena would find their wedding album and choose a few photographs. They would donate a bench plaque to the garden—not with their names, which felt too grand, but with a line from the poem read at their ceremony: *Let us be true to one another.*

On the anniversary evening, they spread a blanket beneath the maple and ate warm pasta from cardboard containers. They laughed at the photographs, especially Mark’s outdated glasses and Elena’s windblown veil.

When the air turned cold, he poured coffee from a thermos. She leaned against him, and they watched families cross the garden in the fading light.

It wasn’t elaborate, but it felt honest: part memory, part present, and something left behind for the years ahead.


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

Their anniversary was three weeks away. Usually they celebrated with dinner at the Italian restaurant near their home in Columbus, Ohio. But twenty years felt too significant for their usual corner booth.

“We could go to Chicago,” Marcus said. “Two nights, nice hotel, no laundry.”

Elena smiled, then looked toward the refrigerator, where their daughter’s college tuition schedule was held under a magnet. “I’d enjoy it,” she said, “but I don’t want to spend the whole trip calculating what it cost.”

Marcus nodded. He drew a line through Chicago.

They considered renting a cabin, hosting a party, and renewing their vows. Elena liked the idea of gathering friends, while Marcus admitted that standing in front of people made him nervous. Neither wanted an event that felt more like an obligation than a celebration.

After lunch, they walked through their neighborhood. The maple trees had begun turning red, and someone nearby was burning leaves. When they passed the small brick house they had rented as newlyweds, Elena stopped.

“Do you remember eating takeout on the floor?” she asked.

“And the upstairs neighbor who practiced trumpet at midnight?”

She laughed. “I remember thinking we were rich because we had matching towels.”

By the time they reached home, they had a plan. On their anniversary, they would spend the day revisiting places that belonged to their marriage: the courthouse where they had signed the license, the park where Marcus had proposed, and the diner where they used to split breakfast after night shifts. That evening, they would cook together and invite their two grown children for dessert.

Marcus added one final idea. They would each write a letter about what they hoped the next ten years would hold, seal them, and open them on their thirtieth anniversary.

Elena took the pen and wrote it down.

“It’s not Chicago,” he said.

“No,” she replied, resting her hand over his. “It’s us.”


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

“I made a list,” he said.

She laughed as she sat across from him. “That sounds romantic.”

They lived in a modest house outside Columbus, Ohio, the one they had bought when their daughter was a toddler. Now she was away at college, and the house felt unusually quiet. On the legal pad, Marcus had written three options: a weekend in Chicago, dinner at the expensive steakhouse downtown, or a backyard party with friends and family.

Elena studied the list. “Chicago sounds nice, but we’d spend half the weekend driving.”

“The steakhouse has reservations at nine-thirty,” Marcus said. “I checked.”

“We’d be asleep over dessert.”

He nodded, crossing it out.

The party seemed obvious, but Elena hesitated. Their anniversary fell on the same date they had closed on the house, nineteen years earlier. She looked through the sliding glass door at the maple tree they had planted that first spring. It was tall now, its branches shading most of the yard.

“What if we stay here,” she said, “but don’t make it a big production?”

Together, they planned a small evening. Marcus would string lights along the fence. Elena would order food from the Lebanese restaurant they both loved. They invited her sister, his parents, two longtime friends, and their daughter, who promised to drive home for the night.

On Saturday, rain forced everyone indoors. The dining room was crowded, and folding chairs blocked the hallway. Still, the house filled with conversation and the smell of garlic and warm bread.

After dinner, their daughter handed them a framed photograph of the house taken that afternoon. In it, Marcus was on a ladder hanging lights while Elena stood below, pointing and smiling.

Later, when the guests had gone, they carried two chairs onto the damp porch.

“Better than Chicago?” Marcus asked.

Elena leaned against him. “Much shorter drive.”

Inside, the lights remained on, glowing through the windows of the home they had built a life in together.


On the morning of their twentieth wedding anniversary, Elena found Mark at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a yellow legal pad.

“I made a list,” he said.

She sat across from him in their Ohio home and read his ideas: dinner downtown, a weekend in Chicago, new patio furniture, a catered party with family.

Elena smiled. “You put patio furniture on an anniversary list?”

“We’ve been talking about it for three years.”

“That doesn’t make it romantic.”

Mark laughed, but he looked relieved. They had both been avoiding the conversation. Money was tighter than usual after replacing the furnace, and their daughter had just started college. Neither wanted to disappoint the other by suggesting something too small—or too expensive.

Elena turned the legal pad over. “What if we go back to the park where you proposed?”

“The one with the broken fountain?”

“It wasn’t broken then.”

They agreed to pack a picnic and invite no one. On Saturday, Mark made the sandwiches while Elena found the old blue blanket they had used on road trips when they were newly married. She also brought a shoebox of photographs, though she didn’t tell him.

The park had changed. The fountain was gone, replaced by a playground, and the oak tree where Mark remembered kneeling had been cut down after a storm. For a moment, they stood uncertainly near the parking lot.

“We could still go downtown,” Mark offered.

Elena took his hand. “No. Let’s find a new tree.”

They chose a maple overlooking the pond. Over lunch, they sorted through photographs: their first apartment, two babies in hospital blankets, camping trips, graduations, a blurry Christmas morning. Mark admitted he had forgotten how young they looked. Elena admitted she had forgotten how much they had managed together.

Before leaving, each wrote a short note about what they wanted for the next five years. They sealed the notes in an envelope and tucked it into the shoebox.

Driving home, Mark asked if she still wanted patio furniture.

“Maybe next spring,” Elena said. “But I want another picnic first.”


Maya got home first, dropping her keys into the blue bowl by the door. The apartment smelled faintly of the coffee Daniel had made that morning. She opened the refrigerator and studied its crowded shelves: half a rotisserie chicken, a bag of spinach, two bell peppers, and a container of rice.

When Daniel came in ten minutes later, loosening his tie, Maya was already slicing a pepper.

“Stir-fry?” he asked.

“That was the idea. Unless you want to order something.”

He checked the rice. “This is still good, right?”

“We made it Sunday.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Then yes.”

Daniel washed his hands and pulled the chicken from the bones while Maya heated oil in their largest skillet. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with practiced adjustments—she stepped aside so he could reach the trash; he closed the spice cabinet before she bumped her head.

“Soy sauce or that sesame one?” he asked.

“Both, but not too much sesame.”

“You always say that.”

“Because you always use too much.”

He smiled and measured carefully. Maya added the peppers, then the spinach, which seemed like far too much until it wilted down. Daniel broke up the cold rice with a wooden spoon. Some grains scattered onto the stove.

“I’ll get those,” he said.

“You said that yesterday.”

“And I did.”

“Eventually.”

They ate at the small table beside the living room window. Outside, traffic moved steadily along the wet street, headlights reflecting in the pavement. The stir-fry was a little salty, but the peppers still had some crunch.

Daniel told Maya about a meeting that had run twenty minutes late. She described the new receptionist at her office, who had accidentally transferred three calls to the supply closet.

When they finished, Maya packed the leftovers into one container for Daniel’s lunch. He filled the sink with hot water and started washing the skillet.

“You cook, I clean,” he said.

“I cooked more.”

“You supervised more.”

She handed him her plate. “Then clean under the stove burners, too.”

He sighed theatrically, and she laughed as she wiped the table.


By six-thirty, Lena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of frozen green beans. Mark came in through the garage carrying the mail and a paper sack from the neighborhood grocery store.

“They were out of chicken thighs,” he said, setting the sack on the counter. “I got breasts instead.”

“That’s fine. We’ll slice them so they cook faster.”

While Lena heated a skillet, Mark opened the mail. He put a supermarket flyer in recycling, left the electric bill beside the fruit bowl, and held up an envelope from their insurance company.

“Anything important?” Lena asked.

“Probably not important enough for dinner.”

He washed his hands and began cutting the chicken into strips. Lena measured rice into a saucepan, then rinsed it twice, though the water never became completely clear. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought. When Mark opened the drawer for a wooden spoon, Lena stepped aside before he asked.

“Garlic?” he said.

“Two cloves.”

“You always say two and then add a third.”

“Then do three.”

The chicken hissed when it hit the skillet. Mark stirred while Lena microwaved the green beans, then tossed them with butter, salt, and a little lemon juice. She tasted one and added more salt.

They ate at the small table by the window. Outside, a neighbor rolled trash bins toward the curb. Mark told Lena about a meeting that had run twenty minutes late. Lena described a customer who had called three times about the same invoice.

Halfway through dinner, Mark said, “This is better than takeout.”

“It’s cheaper than takeout,” Lena replied.

“That too.”

They divided the remaining chicken into a container for Mark’s lunch. Lena wiped the table while he loaded the dishwasher, turning two bowls until they fit between the plates.

“Tea?” he asked.

Lena looked at the clock. “If it’s decaf.”

Mark filled the kettle. She switched off the kitchen light, leaving only the warm bulb above the stove as they waited for the water to boil.


By six-thirty, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and the rain that had followed Maya home from the bus stop. She hung her damp jacket over a kitchen chair and found Daniel standing in front of the open refrigerator.

“We have chicken,” he said, “but not enough for what I planned.”

Maya looked past him. Two small breasts sat on a plate beside half a bag of spinach and a container of cooked rice. “That’s enough if we slice it. Stir-fry?”

Daniel nodded and pulled out the soy sauce. “You change. I’ll start the chicken.”

While Maya traded her work clothes for sweatpants, Daniel set a skillet on the stove and cut the chicken into thin strips. He was careful to use the plastic cutting board, the one they reserved for meat. When Maya returned, she washed the spinach and discovered a red pepper softening in the vegetable drawer.

“Still good?” Daniel asked.

She trimmed away a wrinkled spot. “Good enough for Tuesday.”

They worked around each other in the narrow kitchen. Daniel browned the chicken while Maya sliced the pepper and an onion. When the skillet began to smoke, she opened the window two inches. Cold air slipped in, carrying traffic noise from the street below.

“Rice needs water,” she said, checking the container.

Daniel sprinkled some over it before putting it in the microwave. “Forty-five seconds?”

“Try a minute.”

They added the vegetables, spinach last, then argued mildly about whether the sauce needed honey. Daniel wanted sweetness; Maya thought the pepper was enough. They compromised on half a teaspoon.

At the table, Maya divided the rice while Daniel spooned the stir-fry over both bowls. They ate with the television off. Daniel mentioned a meeting that had run long, and Maya described a stranger who had held the bus for her in the rain.

Halfway through dinner, Daniel reached for the soy sauce.

“Before tasting?” Maya asked.

He tasted, then reached for it again.

She shook her head, smiling.

Afterward, he washed the skillet while she packed the leftovers into one container. There was just enough for one lunch, so they agreed to split it and add fruit in the morning.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator. A container of leftover rice sat beside half a bell pepper, three eggs, and a package of chicken thighs they had forgotten to freeze.

“Chicken has to be tonight,” she called.

From the hallway, Marcus answered, “I’ll start it,” while loosening his tie. He washed his hands, then opened the package and arranged the thighs on a sheet pan. Elena set the oven to 425 and pulled out the salt, pepper, and paprika.

“Garlic powder?” he asked.

“We’re out.”

Marcus checked the cabinet anyway. “We have onion powder.”

“Close enough.”

While he seasoned the chicken, Elena sliced the bell pepper and found a small head of broccoli in the vegetable drawer. The edges looked tired, but the stalk was firm. She trimmed it into florets and tossed everything with oil on the other side of the pan.

“Twenty-five minutes?” Marcus said.

“Thirty. Those are thick.”

They slid the pan into the oven. Elena transferred the rice to a saucepan with a spoonful of water, and Marcus cleared mail from the kitchen table. He held up an envelope from the electric company.

“Paperless billing,” Elena reminded him.

“I know. I keep forgetting the password.”

They agreed to deal with it Saturday.

When the chicken was nearly done, Marcus checked it with the thermometer while Elena stirred the rice. It read 172 degrees. He let the meat rest, and she divided the rice between two bowls. They carried dinner to the table, along with hot sauce and two glasses of seltzer.

The broccoli was darker than Elena intended, crisp at the tips.

“It’s good this way,” Marcus said.

“You say that every time I burn it.”

“I mean it every time.”

They ate while discussing whether the car needed an oil change and which night they could call Marcus’s mother. Afterward, Elena packed the remaining chicken for lunch. Marcus washed the pan, soaking the stuck edges before scrubbing them clean. By eight, the kitchen was quiet again, except for the dishwasher and the low hum of the refrigerator.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark, reflecting the overhead light and the clutter on the counter. Lena set her work bag beside the refrigerator while Marcus rinsed two chicken breasts in their packaging before cutting them open.

“Rice or potatoes?” he asked.

“Rice is faster.” Lena opened the pantry and found half a bag of jasmine rice behind a box of cereal. “Enough for tonight, at least.”

Marcus heated a skillet while Lena measured rice and water into a saucepan. They moved around each other without much discussion, shifting aside at the sink, reaching over the same drawer for spoons. A local radio station played quietly from the speaker on the windowsill.

They had planned on broccoli, but when Lena opened the produce drawer, the florets had yellowed.

“Still okay?” she asked, holding up the bag.

Marcus inspected it. “Probably. But we have frozen green beans.”

“Green beans, then.”

He seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika. Lena poured the beans into a bowl, added a splash of water, and covered them with a plate before putting them in the microwave. While everything cooked, she sorted the mail: a utility bill, a grocery flyer, and a postcard from the dentist.

“You’re overdue,” she said.

“So are you.”

“I went in March.”

“That was last March.”

She checked the date on the postcard and frowned. “Fine. We’re both overdue.”

They ate at the small table near the living room, the chicken sliced over rice with green beans on the side. Marcus added hot sauce. Lena tried it, then reached for the bottle too.

“This is good,” she said.

“It needs lemon.”

“We don’t have lemon.”

“We should make a list.”

After dinner, Marcus packed the remaining rice and chicken into one container for Lena’s lunch. She washed the skillet while he loaded the dishwasher, turning two mugs upright after she pointed out they would collect water.

When the counters were wiped, they stood in the kitchen for a moment, deciding whether to watch television or take a walk.

“Walk,” Lena said, grabbing her sweatshirt.

Marcus switched off the light and followed her out.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the instructions on a bag of rice. Outside, rain tapped against the windows of their townhouse in Maryland.

“Twenty minutes,” she called.

Marcus came in carrying the mail and set it beside the fruit bowl. “For the rice or the whole dinner?”

“The rice. The rest depends on whether you’re willing to chop an onion.”

He washed his hands and opened the refrigerator. They had planned to make tacos, but the ground turkey was still frozen. After a brief discussion, they settled on black bean bowls with whatever they could find: rice, beans, half a red onion, shredded cheese, and an avocado that was almost too soft.

Marcus diced the onion while Elena rinsed the beans. He made the pieces too large, so she slid the cutting board back toward him.

“Smaller, please.”

“They cook down.”

“They do not cook down in three minutes.”

He sighed theatrically but chopped them again. Elena heated the beans with cumin and a spoonful of salsa. Marcus cut open the avocado, removed a brown spot, and mashed the rest with salt and lime juice. When the rice was done, Elena fluffed it with a fork and tasted a grain.

“Needs salt,” she said.

Marcus handed her the shaker without looking up. He was dividing the cheese between two bowls, giving her slightly more because he knew she liked it.

They carried dinner to the small table near the window. Marcus went back for hot sauce, and Elena brought two glasses of water. For a few minutes they ate quietly, listening to the rain and the hum of the dishwasher.

“This is better than tacos,” Marcus said.

“No, it isn’t.”

“It’s at least as good.”

Elena considered the bowl. “It’s cheaper.”

They talked about a leaking gutter, her morning meeting, and whether they needed groceries before Friday. Marcus added milk to the list on his phone. Elena reminded him about coffee.

After dinner, he packed the leftovers for lunch while she rinsed the bowls. Neither of them mentioned dessert until Marcus found two cookies in the cabinet. They split them at the counter, one each, before turning off the kitchen light.


By six-thirty, traffic had thinned on the street outside their duplex in Columbus. Nina stood at the kitchen counter, turning a package of chicken thighs over in her hands as if the label might suggest what to do with them.

“How hungry are you?” she called.

“Regular hungry,” Marcus said from the hallway. He came in carrying the mail and set it beside the fruit bowl. “Not make-a-whole-production hungry.”

“Good. Chicken, rice, and something green?”

He opened the refrigerator. “Broccoli is still alive.”

“Barely.”

While Nina trimmed the chicken, Marcus cut the broccoli into uneven florets. He held up a thick stem. “Do people eat this part?”

“People with vegetable peelers do.”

They didn’t own one, so he sliced off the tough outside with a knife. Nina seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, garlic powder, and paprika, then warmed a skillet. Marcus measured rice into a pot, rinsed it twice, and forgot whether he had added one cup of water or two.

“You added one,” Nina said.

“You weren’t watching.”

“I heard the faucet.”

He added another cup, put on the lid, and set a timer.

The chicken hissed when Nina placed it in the pan. Marcus opened a window after the smoke alarm gave one warning chirp. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen without much thought: Nina reaching behind him for oil, Marcus sliding the cutting board toward the sink.

They debated roasting the broccoli, but the oven would take too long to heat. Marcus steamed it instead, then tossed it with butter and lemon juice. Nina cut into the thickest piece of chicken to check that it was done.

They ate at the small table by the window. The rice was slightly soft, and the broccoli needed salt, but the chicken had crisp edges.

“This is good,” Marcus said.

“It’s fine,” Nina replied, taking another bite.

Afterward, he packed the leftovers for their lunches while she washed the skillet. They discussed Saturday errands, decided the bathroom could wait another week, and split the last canned seltzer before turning off the kitchen light.


At six fifteen, Mara set her laptop on the end of the kitchen counter and rubbed the marks her glasses had left on her nose. Outside, a city bus sighed at the corner, and the last winter light reflected off the apartment building across the street.

“Pasta?” she called.

From the bedroom, Daniel answered, “We had pasta Monday.”

“That was noodles. Different category.”

He came in wearing sweatpants and carrying the laundry basket. “Tacos?”

“No tortillas.”

They opened the refrigerator together and considered its contents: half a rotisserie chicken, a head of broccoli, two eggs, mustard, and a container of rice from the night before.

“Fried rice,” Daniel said.

Mara nodded. “You cut the broccoli. I’ll do the chicken.”

While he started the laundry down the hall, she pulled meat from the chicken and set the bones aside for stock she might or might not make. Daniel returned, washed his hands, and chopped the broccoli into uneven pieces.

“Those stems are fine,” Mara said when he moved to throw them away.

“They’re woody.”

“Peel them.”

He gave her the vegetable peeler with a small bow. “Your department.”

She peeled the stems while he heated oil in their largest skillet. The smoke alarm chirped once, and Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it until Mara turned down the burner.

They added broccoli, rice, and chicken, then pushed everything aside to scramble the eggs. Daniel poured in soy sauce.

“Not too much,” Mara said.

He stopped. “You say that after I pour.”

At the table, they divided the last sparkling water and ate from mismatched bowls. The rice was a little dry, so Mara brought over chili crisp. Daniel checked the basketball score on his phone, then turned it facedown when she began describing a problem with her manager.

He listened, asked whether she wanted advice, and accepted her no.

Afterward, Mara packed the leftovers for lunch. Daniel loaded the dishwasher, fitting the skillet in only after rearranging everything twice. When the washing machine buzzed, they looked at each other.

“Your turn,” Mara said.

Daniel sighed, but he was already standing.


By six-thirty, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was standing in the kitchen, reading the back of a rice package. Outside, rain ticked against the windows of their duplex in Columbus. Marcus came in through the side door, shaking water from his jacket.

“What’s the plan?” he asked, hanging it on a chair.

“Chicken, rice, and whatever vegetable hasn’t gone bad.”

Marcus opened the refrigerator and inspected the crisper drawer. “Broccoli’s still respectable.”

“Good. You’re in charge of it.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with the ease of people who knew where the other would reach. Elena trimmed two chicken breasts and heated oil in a skillet. Marcus cut the broccoli into uneven florets, then swept the pieces into a bowl.

“Too big?” he asked.

“They’ll cook.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

Elena smiled. “A little big.”

While he cut them smaller, she seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika. The skillet hissed when she laid the pieces down. Marcus measured rice and water into a saucepan, checked the package himself, and turned on the burner.

They talked about practical things: the electric bill, his dentist appointment, whether Elena could pick up detergent tomorrow. When the smoke alarm chirped once, Marcus waved a dish towel beneath it while Elena lowered the heat.

“Every time,” he said.

“It’s sensitive.”

“It’s traumatized.”

They steamed the broccoli in the microwave and squeezed half a lemon over it. Twenty-five minutes after they started, they carried their plates to the small dining table, leaving the pans to soak.

The chicken was slightly dry, and the rice had stuck to the bottom of the pot, but the broccoli was bright and tender.

“You were right about cutting it smaller,” Marcus admitted.

Elena took another bite. “Please put that in writing.”

He reached for the hot sauce and slid it toward her before she asked. They ate while the rain continued, discussing a show they might watch and who would wash the dishes. By the time their plates were empty, they had decided: Marcus would clean up, and Elena would make tea.


By six-thirty, the kitchen windows had turned dark, reflecting Claire at the stove and Marcus setting two plates on the small table. Their townhouse sat close enough to the highway that the rush of traffic made a steady hush behind the walls.

“Do we have rice?” Claire asked, opening the pantry.

“Half a bag.” Marcus held it up. “Enough if neither of us plans to be heroic.”

Claire had stopped at the grocery store after work and bought chicken thighs, broccoli, and a lemon. Marcus rinsed the rice while she patted the chicken dry and seasoned it with salt, pepper, and paprika. They moved around each other with the practiced courtesy of people sharing limited counter space.

“Hot pan,” Claire warned.

Marcus stepped aside, carrying the rice pot to the back burner. “How long?”

“Twenty minutes, maybe.”

“Good. That’s exactly how long the rice takes if I don’t mess with it.”

“You always mess with it.”

“I check on it.”

“You lift the lid.”

He smiled and put the lid on.

While the chicken browned, Marcus cut the broccoli into uneven florets. Claire zested the lemon, then squeezed half over the vegetables. They discussed whether to roast the broccoli or cook it in the same skillet.

“Fewer dishes,” Marcus said.

“Less crispy,” Claire replied.

They looked at the sink, already holding two coffee mugs and a cereal bowl.

“Same skillet,” they agreed.

Marcus added the broccoli around the chicken and lowered the heat. Claire packed the remaining groceries away, finding an old bag of wilted spinach in the crisper. She held it up.

“Compost,” Marcus said.

“Tomorrow.”

They ate at the table with water and the last two cans of seltzer. The rice was slightly sticky, and the broccoli had absorbed the lemony pan juices. Marcus gave Claire the crispest piece of chicken; she slid some extra broccoli onto his plate.

They talked about a dentist appointment, the electric bill, and a neighbor’s missing cat. Afterward, Claire wrapped the leftovers for lunch while Marcus washed the skillet. When he reached for the coffee mugs, she turned off the kitchen light.

“Tomorrow,” she said.