The late October sun cast long, amber shadows across the kitchen table where Daniel sat, tapping a pen against a notepad. Across from him, Maya rinsed a coffee mug, the only sound the soft rush of water and the clink of ceramic against the sink.

“So,” Daniel said, his voice breaking the quiet. “Ten years. We should probably decide something before it’s next year.”

Maya turned off the tap and dried her hands on a dishtowel. “I know. We’ve been going back and forth for a month.” She walked over and sat beside him. “Let’s just be practical for a second. The ‘big trip’ fund is looking a little thin after the water heater.”

Daniel nodded, a small sigh escaping him. “Right. Rome might have to wait.” He pushed the notepad toward her. It was blank. “I keep thinking about what we’d actually enjoy, not just what sounds impressive.”

Maya leaned her chin on her hand. “Okay. What’s the first memory that comes to mind when you think about our best times? Not the wedding, but after.”

He thought for a moment. “Honestly? That fall we drove up to the mountains for the day. We got lost, found that little diner, and just… talked for hours. No agenda.”

A smile touched her lips. “I remember. You had maple syrup on your sleeve.”

“A badge of honor.” He grinned. “What about you?”

“The night we stayed in and tried to make pasta from scratch,” she said. “Flour everywhere. It was a disaster. We ended up ordering pizza and laughing on the kitchen floor. It wasn’t fancy, but it was us.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. Daniel reached for her hand. “So, maybe that’s it. We don’t need a grand gesture. We could drive up to the mountains again. Stay at that little lodge we saw. No schedule. Just a long weekend of being lost together, minus the getting-lost part, maybe.”

Maya squeezed his hand. “And we can find a diner. I’ll even let you get syrup on your sleeve for old times’ sake.”

Daniel smiled, a genuine, easy smile. He picked up the pen and wrote one word on the notepad: *Mountains.*


The late September light slanted through the kitchen window, catching the fine lines around David’s eyes as he dried a plate. He set it in the cupboard with a soft clink. “So,” he said, his voice casual, “ten years. We should do something.”

Maya looked up from her laptop, where she’d been sorting through bills. “We should,” she agreed, closing the screen. “But not a big party. Please, not a party.”

“Agreed,” David said, a smile touching his lips. He knew her well. “What about a trip? We could fly somewhere. Somewhere warm.”

Maya considered it, her finger tracing a knot in the wooden table. A beach in the Caribbean, a resort in Mexico. It sounded lovely, but also… distant. “It feels like a lot of effort,” she admitted. “The flights, the packing, the pressure to have a perfect time.”

David leaned against the counter, folding the dishtowel. “Maybe you’re right. Remember our fifth? We went to that vineyard in Napa and spent the whole time worrying about the rental car.”

Maya laughed, a genuine, warm sound. “And we got lost on the way back from dinner. I thought you were going to have a stroke.”

“I did not,” he said, feigning offense. “I was simply… intensely focused on navigation.”

They were quiet for a moment, the comfortable silence of two people who had shared a decade of quiet moments. The house was still, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator.

“What if we just stayed here?” Maya said, her voice soft. “But made it special.”

David raised an eyebrow. “Here?”

“We could cook that ridiculous lobster risotto we saw on TV,” she said, warming to the idea. “The one with the saffron. Open that bottle of champagne we’ve been saving. Maybe build a fire in the backyard pit and just… talk. No phones.”

He walked over and stood behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. He could feel the tension there begin to ease. “That sounds perfect,” he said. “It’s us. It’s not about a place, it’s about the time.”

Maya leaned her head back against his stomach. “Exactly. Ten years of this. Of us, right here.” The idea felt more significant than any plane ticket. It was a choice to celebrate the life they’d built, not escape it.


The September evening had cooled enough to warrant the cardigan draped over Maya’s shoulders as she sat on the porch swing, a half-empty glass of iced tea sweating on the wicker table beside her. The screen door creaked, and then Ben was there, lowering himself beside her with a soft grunt. He handed her a brochure, its paper slick and new.

“I picked this up at the hardware store,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “For the anniversary.”

Maya flipped it open. It was for a luxury cabin resort three hours north, promising private hot tubs and starlit decks. The photos were beautiful, all golden wood and stone fireplaces. She traced a finger over the glossy image of a couple toasting wine glasses on a porch. It looked peaceful, but also expensive.

“It’s lovely, Ben,” she said, and she meant it. “But I was thinking… maybe we could finally tackle the garden path? That brick one we’ve been talking about for two years.” She gestured toward the side of the house where the grass was worn down to a dirt trail. “We could rent a tiller, get our hands dirty. Finish it in a weekend. Just us.”

Ben leaned back, the old swing groaning under their shared weight. He looked from the brochure in her hand to the patch of ragged earth. A quiet settled between them, filled with the sound of crickets tuning up for the night.

“That’s a lot of work,” he said finally, not dismissively, just stating a fact. “You want to spend our tenth anniversary with a shovel?”

“I want to spend it building something we’ll see every day,” she countered gently. “Something that lasts.”

He was quiet for a long moment, then a slow smile touched his lips. He took the brochure from her hand, folded it, and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Okay,” he said. “But on one condition. We do it right. Good bricks, proper sand. And when we’re done, we celebrate with a bottle of that wine from the picture.” He nodded towards the brochure in his pocket. “We’ll have earned it.”

Maya smiled, leaning her head against his shoulder. The path would be a testament, a shared labor of love. It felt exactly right.


The late afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, catching the dust motes floating above the cutting board. Elena finished dicing the last of the cilantro and turned to find David leaning against the doorframe, a familiar, thoughtful look on his face.

“The big one-five is next month,” he said, not quite a question.

“It is,” she replied, wiping her hands on a towel. “Fifteen years. Feels both like a blink and a lifetime.”

He walked over and took the towel from her, folding it neatly on the counter. “I was thinking. We could do the whole thing—fancy hotel downtown, dinner at that place with the truffle risotto you love.” He paused. “Or… we could finally fix the back deck.”

Elena laughed, a short, surprised sound. “The deck? That’s your romantic anniversary idea?”

“Hear me out,” he said, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. “Remember our first anniversary? We were broke. We bought a bottle of cheap wine and sat on the fire escape of that tiny apartment, talking until the sun came up. We made a promise to build a life where we could do that anytime we wanted.”

She did remember. The city had been loud, but they hadn’t noticed. “And now we have a house with a deck that’s one loose board away from a lawsuit.”

“Exactly,” he said, smiling. “So, I was thinking we could rebuild it. Together. We’d rent a sander, get the good cedar. Then, when it’s done, we christen it with a bottle of that same cheap wine, under the stars. In our own backyard.”

Elena looked out the window at the sagging, weathered wood. She saw the work, the sweat, the inevitable bickering over measurements. But she also saw David, twenty-five again, full of quiet, steadfast hope. She saw them building something tangible, a foundation for the next fifteen years.

“That’s the best idea you’ve had in a long time,” she said softly, leaning into him. “But we’re upgrading the wine. Just a little.”


The afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, warming the oak table where Sarah and Tom sat with mugs of coffee growing cold. A stack of travel brochures sat between them, untouched for the past ten minutes.

“We could just go back to that cabin in the Smokies,” Tom said, tracing the rim of his mug. “The one with the hot tub on the deck.”

Sarah shook her head slowly. “That was our fifth anniversary. This is twenty. It should feel… different.”

“Different how?” Tom asked, not with frustration but genuine curiosity. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him.

“I don’t know.” Sarah tucked a strand of graying hair behind her ear. “Maybe not a trip at all. Maybe we do something here. Something that says we’ve built a life together, not just that we can escape one.”

Tom considered this, his eyes drifting to the backyard where the maple tree they’d planted as a sapling now cast shade over half the lawn. “What did you have in mind?”

“Remember when we first moved in? We said we’d eventually redo the backyard. Put in that stone patio, the fire pit.” She gestured toward the window. “We kept putting it off for vacations, for other things.”

“Twenty years of putting it off,” Tom said with a small smile.

“Twenty years of other adventures.” Sarah reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. “But this anniversary, maybe we stay home. Build the thing we’ve been talking about since the beginning. Make the place we already love even more ours.”

Tom was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “We’d have to learn how to lay stone.”

“We learned how to raise two kids. I think we can manage a patio.”

He laughed, the sound warm and familiar. “Fair point. And we can get that fire pit you always wanted. The one with the wide rim for resting your feet.”

“You remembered that?”

“I remember everything you’ve ever pointed at in a catalog,” he said. “So, we’re doing this? Staying home, getting our hands dirty?”

Sarah squeezed his hand. “I can’t think of a better way to celebrate twenty years than building something that’ll last twenty more.”

Tom lifted his coffee mug, and she clinked hers against it. Outside, the maple tree swayed gently in the breeze, its roots deep in the soil they’d tended together.


The first Saturday in October had always belonged to them. This year, for their tenth anniversary, the familiar debate began over the kitchen island, steam curling from two mugs of coffee.

“We could just go back to the coast,” Sarah said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Same bed and breakfast. It’s still there. We know it’s perfect.”

Mark leaned against the counter, shaking his head slowly. “I know, but that feels like a rerun. Ten years should feel… I don’t know, bigger. What about the cabin up north? No cell service, just the fireplace and the lake.”

“That’s a different kind of perfect,” she admitted, tracing the rim of her mug. “But it’s also a lot of driving for a weekend. And I’d have to pack for three seasons in one bag.” She looked at him, her eyes soft with the memory of a decade. “Remember our first apartment? We celebrated six months by ordering a pizza and watching a movie on a laptop because we couldn’t afford a TV stand.”

He smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. “And we thought we were living like royalty.”

A quiet settled between them, comfortable and full. The grand gestures, the elaborate trips—they had done those. They had the photo albums to prove it. But what felt most like *them* now was the quiet rhythm of their life in this house.

“What if,” Sarah started, her voice thoughtful, “we don’t go anywhere?”

Mark raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“What if we just… stay here? We turn off our phones, we cook that ridiculous mushroom risotto we never have time for, and we finally open that bottle of wine from our wedding year.” She met his gaze. “We celebrate the life we actually built, not the one we escape to.”

He considered this, his gaze drifting to the living room, to the worn spot on the rug where they danced in their socks, to the bookshelf they’d assembled together, bickering over the instructions. A slow smile spread across his face.

“That,” he said, picking up his coffee, “sounds more like ten years than any beach ever could.”


The October light was fading early when Daniel came in from the garage, the cold air still clinging to his flannel shirt. He found Maya at the kitchen table, her laptop open, a half-empty mug of tea gone lukewarm beside her. Spread around the computer were three different brochures, their glossy pages fanned out like a hand of cards.

“The internet has opinions,” she said without looking up. “Too many of them.”

He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. “I thought we agreed on dinner at that Italian place downtown. The one with the brick wall.”

Maya finally met his eyes. “We did. But then I started thinking. Ten years feels… bigger than ravioli.” She pushed one of the brochures toward him. “There’s a bed and breakfast in the Berkshires. Fall foliage, fireplace in the room. Very us, ten years ago.”

Daniel picked it up, studied the photo of a white clapboard house surrounded by orange maples. “That’s a six-hour drive. I’ve got that project deadline on Friday.” He said it gently, not as a refusal, but as a fact they’d have to navigate.

“I know,” she said. “I checked the calendar. We could leave Saturday morning, be back late Sunday. It’s tight, but it’s doable.” She paused, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Or we could just stay here. Order takeout from the Thai place, watch our wedding video, fall asleep on the couch at nine-thirty.”

He smiled at that. “That sounds more like a regular Tuesday.”

“Exactly,” she said, and there was a hint of vulnerability in her voice. “I don’t want this to feel like a regular Tuesday. But I also don’t want us to force a big production just because the calendar says so.”

Daniel sat down across from her, reaching for her hand. Her fingers were cold from the mug. “What do you actually want to do?” he asked.

Maya was quiet for a moment, looking at their joined hands. “I want to remember why we chose this,” she said softly. “All of it. The house, the jobs, the boring Tuesdays. I want to go somewhere we can hear each other think.”

He squeezed her hand. “Book the bed and breakfast,” he said. “I’ll talk to Greg about the deadline. It’s just a deck. It can wait.”

She smiled, a real one that reached her eyes, and pulled the laptop toward her. “Okay. But we’re still getting Thai food tonight.”

“Deal,” he said, and got up to find the menu.


The kitchen smelled of coffee and the faint, sweet scent of the last peonies from their garden. Mark was at the table, laptop open, a half-eaten bagel abandoned on a plate. Sarah leaned against the counter, cradling her mug, watching the morning light catch the dust motes in the air.

“Ten years,” she said, more to the room than to him.

He looked up, a slight smile touching his lips. “Ten years. We should do something.”

That was how it always started. A vague, well-intentioned agreement. For their fifth, they’d flown to Napa, a blur of vineyards and rich food. For their seventh, a long weekend in Maine, hiking rocky coastlines. But this year felt different. The house needed a new roof. Mark’s company was in the middle of a merger. Sarah’s mother had just had a hip replacement.

“I was looking at flights to Charleston,” Mark said, turning the laptop slightly. “A long weekend. Good food, some history…”

Sarah shook her head gently. “Mark, the roof estimate came in yesterday. It’s… a lot.”

He closed the laptop with a soft click. “Right. The roof.” He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture she knew meant he was recalibrating, letting go of a plan.

“What if,” she began, setting her mug down and moving to sit across from him, “we don’t go anywhere?”

He looked at her, his brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if we just… stay here? We could finally redo the back patio. Or just spend the weekend doing nothing. No work, no phones. We could cook a really great meal together, watch old movies. Remember why we like each other.”

He considered this, his gaze drifting toward the window that looked out onto their overgrown backyard. The idea of a project felt like work, but the core of it—the stillness, the being together—was appealing. He thought about the last few months, a frantic relay race of schedules and obligations.

“You know,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face, “that actually sounds perfect.” He reached across the table and took her hand, his thumb tracing a small circle on her palm. “Let’s do it. Let’s be boring together.”

Sarah laughed, the sound light and easy. “It’s not boring. It’s us.”


The last of the Sunday paper was spread across the kitchen table, but Daniel wasn’t reading it. He was watching the late morning sun catch the few strands of silver in Lena’s hair as she watered the herbs on the windowsill. Their tenth anniversary was next Saturday.

“So,” he said, setting his coffee mug down with a soft clink. “We should probably figure out Saturday.”

Lena turned, a small smile playing on her lips. “I’ve been thinking about that. I almost booked us a table at The Foundry.”

“The Foundry’s nice,” Daniel said, his voice neutral. He knew that tone. It was the tone she used when she was about to talk herself out of something she thought she should want.

“It is,” she agreed, sitting down across from him. “But then I remembered our actual first date. We got those terrible gas station hot dogs and sat on the tailgate of your truck, looking at the stars.”

Daniel laughed. “And you still married me.”

“A decade of evidence that it was the right call.” She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his wrist. “I don’t want to get dressed up and sit in a crowded restaurant. I want to get in the truck, drive out to Miller’s Point, and eat chili dogs while we watch the sunset.”

He considered it. It wasn’t grand, but it was them. He thought of the quiet comfort of their home, the garden they’d built, the life that was woven from a thousand small, unremarkable moments. The milestone deserved to be marked, but it didn’t need to be invented.

“Only if we get the ones with the spicy mustard,” he said, a grin spreading across his face. “And we can stop for ice cream on the way back. The place with the homemade waffle cones.”

Lena’s smile widened. “Deal.”

Daniel squeezed her hand, the decision settled as easily and as comfortably as everything else between them. It wouldn’t be a story for anyone else, but it was the only story that mattered. It was theirs.


The September light was thinning into that particular amber that made the kitchen window glow, and Daniel was at the sink, drying a pan. He set it down with a soft clatter and looked over at Maya, who was curled on the bench seat by the window, scrolling on her phone.

“So,” he said, “ten years. What’s the verdict?”

Maya looked up, a small crease between her brows. “I was just looking at that restaurant in the city. The one with the tasting menu. It’s three hundred a person.”

Daniel winced slightly, leaning back against the counter. “We could do it. But is that what we want? To get dressed up, drive an hour, and feel like we’re at a job interview with fancy food?”

She let out a short laugh. “No. You’re right. I was just… feeling the pressure of the number. Ten years feels like it should be a production.” She put her phone down. “What are you thinking?”

He walked over and sat on the edge of the bench, his knee brushing hers. “Remember that terrible little cabin we rented for our first anniversary? The one with the leaky faucet and the family of mice in the wall?”

“How could I forget? You tried to fix the faucet and flooded the bathroom.”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “And we ended up sitting on the porch in our coats, drinking cheap wine and talking until two in the morning. It was perfect.”

Maya’s expression softened. “It was.”

“So what if we just… recreate the good part? Not the mice. We could get the good wine, the kind we actually like now. Build a fire in the backyard pit. Put our phones inside. Just sit out there and talk. No production, no drive, no three-hundred-dollar plates.”

She considered it, her gaze drifting to the backyard where the leaves were just beginning to turn. A slow smile spread across her face. “I think that sounds more like us than any tasting menu.” She reached out and took his hand. “Let’s do that.”


The October light slanted through the kitchen window, illuminating a fine layer of dust on the cookbooks. Mark leaned against the counter, scrolling through his phone. “Okay, I’ve got it,” he said, not looking up. “There’s a new omakase place downtown. Tasting menu, very exclusive. We could get a hotel room after, make a whole night of it.”

Across the room, Elena was watering the pothos on the windowsill, her movements slow and deliberate. She set the watering can down with a soft clink. “That sounds lovely,” she said, her voice carrying a familiar note of hesitation. “It’s also three hundred dollars before we even order a drink.”

Mark finally looked up, his brow furrowed. “It’s our tenth, Lena. We’re allowed to splurge.”

“I know,” she said, turning to face him. She wore one of his old flannel shirts, the sleeves rolled up. “But I was thinking about it this morning while I was making coffee. Remember our first anniversary? When the power went out and we ate that slightly stale grocery store cake by candlelight?”

He smiled, a small, private smile. “We’d just spent all our money on the security deposit for this place.”

“Exactly. We were so proud of this house. Of just being here.” She gestured vaguely at the room around them—the scuffed floorboards, the mismatched chairs, the wall they’d painted a deep, calming green three summers ago. “I don’t want to escape our life to celebrate it. I want to be in it.”

Mark set his phone down on the counter, screen dark. He looked at her, at the soft lines around her eyes that hadn’t been there a decade ago, and felt a familiar tug in his chest. The idea of a fancy dinner suddenly felt loud and impersonal.

“So,” he said, moving toward her. “What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking we could finally tackle that back patio,” she said. “Rent a power washer. Then, when it’s clean, we grill steaks, open that expensive bottle of wine your brother gave us, and eat outside under the string lights. Just us.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. The scent of soil and her shampoo mingled in the air. “Power washing and a good steak,” he murmured into her hair. “I think that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.” She laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest, and he knew it was the perfect plan.


The late September light slanted through the kitchen window, catching the fine lines around David’s eyes as he dried a pan. He watched his wife, Lena, at the table, her brow furrowed in concentration over a spreadsheet on her laptop. Their tenth anniversary was in three weeks.

“So,” he said, hanging the towel on the oven handle. “Have you given any more thought to the big one-zero?”

Lena looked up, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I have. And I think I’ve finally landed on something.” She turned the laptop around to face him. “I was looking at flights to the Pacific Northwest. Remember that little cabin we rented near Mount Rainier the year we got married? The one with the wood stove and no cell service?”

A flicker of nostalgia crossed David’s face. “Of course I remember. The time we tried to make that elaborate campfire stew and ended up eating peanut butter sandwiches for dinner.”

“Exactly,” she laughed, a soft, warm sound. “I was thinking we could go back. Just us, some good coffee, and those incredible hikes. A real reset.”

David leaned against the counter, considering it. The idea was tempting, a perfect echo of their beginning. But a different thought had been germinating in his mind for weeks. “That does sound amazing,” he said carefully. “But I was thinking about something else. What if we finally tackled the backyard? You know, built that stone patio we’ve been talking about for five years? We could do it together, order takeout from that Thai place, and then have a permanent thing to show for it. A place to sit and watch the fireflies next summer.”

Lena’s smile faded slightly as she processed his idea. “A construction project? For our tenth anniversary?” She didn’t sound dismissive, just genuinely surprised. “I was hoping for something a little more… escapist. Don’t you want to get away from the leaky faucet and the lawn that needs mowing?”

“It’s not about the work, Lena. It’s about building something here,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the house around them. “We spend so much time escaping *to* things. I thought it might be nice to invest in the place where we actually live our lives.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator. Both of their visions were valid, born from the same love but pointing in different directions. Lena closed her laptop. “Okay,” she said softly. “What if we do a little of both?”

David raised an eyebrow.

“We take a long weekend, just a short drive, not a big flight. We find a quiet bed-and-breakfast in the mountains, do some hiking. And then,” she continued, a plan forming in her eyes, “when we get back, we hire someone to pour the patio foundation. We spend the next weekend doing the fun part—picking out the stones, planting the border flowers. Together.”

David’s face broke into a slow grin. He walked over and kissed the top of her head. “Compromise,” he said. “Now that’s a very married way to celebrate.”


The September light through the kitchen window was thin and pale, the kind that made the dust motes over the fruit bowl look like flecks of gold. Mark stood at the counter, methodically drying a ceramic mug with a dish towel. Across from him, Elena leaned against the island, scrolling through her phone.

“Okay,” she said, not looking up. “I’ve got three tabs open. A bed-and-breakfast in the Hudson Valley, a tapas place in the city, and a website for a pottery class where you can bring your own wine.”

Mark set the mug down and folded the towel. “Pottery? You haven’t touched clay since that disastrous ashtray you made in college.”

“It was a ring dish,” she corrected, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “And it had character.”

“It looked like a small, gray pancake that had been in a fight.”

She finally looked up, her eyes bright behind her glasses. “Fine. Scratch the pottery.” She sighed and placed the phone face-down on the counter. “Ten years, Mark. It feels like we should do something more than just a nice dinner.”

He moved to stand beside her, their shoulders touching. The house was quiet, the only sound the low hum of the refrigerator. He thought about the past decade—not the grand gestures, but the accumulation of small, shared moments: the Sunday crossword battles, the way she always knew when he’d had a bad day, the comfortable silence of reading in the same room.

“What if we don’t go anywhere?” he asked.

Elena tilted her head, a question in her expression.

“I mean it,” he continued. “What if we unplug the Wi-Fi, turn off our phones, and cook that ridiculous, complicated pasta recipe from the cookbook your sister gave us? The one with the braised short rib ragu. We could open that bottle of Barolo we’ve been saving for a ‘special enough’ occasion.”

“And then what?” she asked softly.

“Then we sit on the back porch,” he said, “and just talk. Or don’t talk. For as long as we want. No reservations, no traffic, no schedule.” He looked at her. “Ten years of building a life here. Maybe the best way to celebrate is to actually be here, in it.”

Elena was quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting to the window, to the maple tree in their backyard just beginning to show a hint of red. A slow, genuine smile spread across her face. “I’d like that,” she said. “But I’m in charge of the pasta water.”

“Deal,” he said, and reached for her hand.


The morning of their tenth anniversary, Sarah stood at the kitchen window, cradling a mug of coffee. The late October light made the turning maple in their backyard look like it was on fire. She heard the soft thud of David’s footsteps on the stairs before he appeared, his hair still damp from a shower.

“Happy decade,” he said, his voice a little rough. He came up behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Any grand revelations?”

She leaned back into him. “Just that I’m too old for a big production. You?”

He was quiet for a moment, his arms wrapped loosely around her waist. “I was thinking about that weekend in Vermont. The one where the power went out at the cabin.”

Sarah smiled at the memory. They’d spent two days playing Scrabble by candlelight, eating cold cuts, and talking with a depth they hadn’t managed before or since. “That was a good one. But I’m not sure I want to recreate a power outage.”

“No, I know,” he said. “I just mean… the feeling of it. No itinerary.”

She turned to face him. The usual suspects for a tenth anniversary—a trip, a fancy dinner, a piece of jewelry—all felt either exhausting or hollow. What she wanted was simpler, a deliberate pause. “What if we just stay here?” she asked. “No phones, no work. We cook something complicated together, open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving, and actually talk. Like we did in Vermont, but with central heating.”

David considered this, his gaze drifting to the pile of unread mail on the counter. A slow smile spread across his face. “I think that’s perfect. I’ll make my grandmother’s lasagna. It takes all afternoon, which is the point.”

“And I’ll make the tiramisu,” Sarah countered. “We’ll be insufferably full and happy.”

He kissed her forehead. “Deal. The grandest adventure of all: a Saturday with nowhere to be but here.”


The invitation sat on the kitchen counter between them, a crisp ivory rectangle that had arrived that morning. It was for a black-tie fundraiser for the city orchestra, a cause Elena had supported for years. The date, however, was October 12th.

Mark leaned against the refrigerator, a half-unpacked grocery bag forgotten beside him. “It’s a sign,” he said, tapping the card. “Our tenth anniversary, and the gala falls on the exact same day. We could get dressed up, have a fancy dinner, listen to music. It’d be memorable.”

Elena, still in her paint-splattered smock from her studio out back, picked up the invitation. She ran a thumb over the embossed lettering. “It would be beautiful,” she agreed, her voice thoughtful. “But it’s also a room full of five hundred people we’d have to make small talk with.” She set the card down. “I was thinking of something else.”

She walked to the drawer by the sink and pulled out a worn, spiral-bound notebook. “Remember this?” she asked, flipping it open. It was their first travel journal, from a road trip they’d taken through the Blue Ridge Mountains the year they were married. The pages were filled with her neat sketches and Mark’s sprawling, enthusiastic notes about the best diner pie and the foggiest overlooks.

“We said we’d go back,” she said softly. “To that little cabin in Boone. No schedule, no crowds. Just us, the fireplace, and that terrible local wine we thought was so sophisticated.”

Mark smiled, the tension leaving his shoulders. He remembered the wine, and the way the cabin’s screen door had squeaked. “You’d rather have that than a five-course meal and a string quartet?”

Elena closed the notebook. “I’d rather have the memory of us,” she said. “Ten years later, still figuring out the fireplace.”

Mark pulled her into a hug, the grocery bag forgotten. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go find that terrible wine.”


The autumn light through the kitchen window was thin and pale, the kind that made the dust motes over the sink look like flecks of gold. Elena was at the table, a stack of mail pushed to one side, her laptop open. She scrolled past a list of bed-and-breakfasts in Vermont, each one more charming and more expensive than the last.

“We could just do dinner,” she said, without looking up. “That new place on Maple, the one with the good wine list. Quiet. No packing.”

From the doorway, Marcus leaned against the frame, a half-empty mug of coffee in his hand. He watched her for a moment, the way her brow furrowed slightly at the screen. He knew that look. It was the look she got when she was trying to solve a problem with a spreadsheet.

“We did dinner last year,” he said, his voice calm. “And the year before that, I think. We’re in a rut, Lena. A comfortable rut, but still a rut.”

She sighed, pushing the laptop away. “I know. I just… the thought of driving four hours to look at leaves we can see from our own backyard feels like a lot of effort for a picture.”

Marcus walked over, setting his mug down and pulling out the chair beside her. He sat, his knee brushing hers under the table. “It’s not about the leaves,” he said. “It’s about the twenty years. We should do something that feels like us, not like a chore.”

Elena finally looked at him, her dark eyes softening. “And what does ‘us’ feel like anymore? We’re not the kids who went backpacking through Colorado.”

“No,” he agreed, a small smile playing on his lips. “We’re the people who built a life here. What if we didn’t go anywhere?”

She tilted her head, curious.

“Remember when we first bought this place?” he asked. “The wall in the living room, the one with the crack from the settling. We always said we’d fix it and have a proper housewarming. Never did.”

Elena’s gaze drifted toward the living room, a faint memory stirring. “We painted around it.”

“We painted around it,” he echoed. “So, for our anniversary, let’s fix the crack. Together. Then we get takeout from that Thai place you love, open the bottle of wine we’ve been saving, and christen the damn wall.”

A genuine smile spread across her face, the first one all morning. It was simple, a little messy, and completely them. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was a promise renewed. She reached over and covered his hand with hers. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s do that.”


The September air had that first hint of fall as Mara stood at the kitchen counter, sorting through the day’s mail. A flyer for a Caribbean cruise slid onto the granite, its cover a splash of turquoise water and white sand. She let it sit there, a silent temptation, before pushing it aside.

“I still think we should just go to the cabin,” Daniel said, walking in from the garage. He’d been out back, and the faint scent of sawdust and pine clung to his flannel shirt. “Unplug for a few days. Just us and the lake.”

Mara turned, leaning against the counter. “We do that every year for the Fourth of July. This is ten years, Dan. Shouldn’t it feel… bigger?”

He came over and wrapped an arm around her waist, his chin resting on the top of her head. “Bigger doesn’t have to mean expensive or far away. It could mean quieter. More intentional.” He nodded toward the discarded flyer. “A cruise sounds like a lot of people and a lot of schedules.”

She sighed, a small smile playing on her lips. She’d known he’d say that. The truth was, part of her agreed. The thought of airports and buffets was exhausting. But another part of her, the part that had spent the last decade building a life with this man, wanted a grand gesture, a story they could tell for the next ten years.

“What about a compromise?” she asked, turning in his arms to face him. “We don’t go to the cabin. We don’t go on a cruise. We book that little bed and breakfast in the Shenandoah Valley. The one with the farm-to-table restaurant and the hiking trails right out the back door. It’s an hour away, but it feels like a different world.”

Daniel considered this, his thumb tracing small circles on her back. “No cooking, no cleaning… and we can still unplug.”

“And we can have a fancy dinner without getting on a plane,” she added.

He grinned, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Deal. You book the room, I’ll find a bottle of that wine you like to take with us.” He gave her a quick kiss. “Happy almost-anniversary.”

Mara leaned into him, the decision settling comfortably between them. It wasn’t a cruise, and it wasn’t the cabin, but it was theirs.


The autumn light was thin and gray through the kitchen window as Elena rinsed her coffee cup. On the refrigerator, held by a magnet shaped like a Maine lobster, was a photograph from ten years ago. She and Tom, sunburned and laughing, stood on a rocky beach in Acadia National Park.

“It’s our tenth,” Tom said, coming up behind her. He rested his chin on the top of her head. “We should do something.”

“I know.” Elena dried her hands on a dishtowel. “I’ve been thinking about it all week.”

A silence settled between them, comfortable but expectant. The house had its own quiet sounds now—the hum of the furnace, the tick of the mantel clock. For years, their anniversary had meant a fancy dinner downtown, maybe a night at a hotel. But this year felt different, heavier with significance.

“We could go back to Acadia,” Tom suggested. He poured the last of the coffee into his mug. “Rent a little cabin. Hike the trail again.”

Elena leaned against the counter. “It’s a long drive for two days.”

“We could make it a week.”

“Tom, the kids’ fall break isn’t until November.” She looked at him, her expression soft but practical. “And your mom just had her knee replaced. We can’t ask her to watch them.”

Tom nodded slowly, his thumb tracing the rim of his mug. “So no big trip.”

“No big trip,” she agreed.

The clock ticked. Outside, a neighbor’s dog barked at a passing school bus.

“What if,” Elena said, turning to face him fully, “we didn’t go anywhere? What if we stayed here, just the two of us? Your mom could take the kids for one night. We could cook something we’ve never made before, open that bottle of wine we bought in Napa, and finally watch that documentary you recorded in March.”

Tom smiled, a real smile that reached his eyes. “No reservations. No traffic.”

“No pressure to have fun,” she added.

He crossed the kitchen and pulled her into a hug. “That sounds perfect,” he said into her hair. “Maybe we can even find the old photo album.”

“The one with the terrible haircuts?”

“Especially that one.”

They stood there for a moment, holding onto each other in the quiet house, the day’s first light warming the floorboards.


The first Saturday in October had always belonged to them, but this year, the tenth, felt heavier, more significant. Rain streaked the living room window of their Portland bungalow as Maya scrolled through her phone on the couch. Liam sat in the worn armchair opposite, a half-empty mug of coffee growing cold in his hand.

“So,” she said, not looking up. “We could do the coast. That little inn in Cannon Beach with the fireplace. They have a two-night minimum, but we could make it work.”

Liam nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the rain. “We could. It’s just… we’ve done that. For our fifth, remember? The power went out and we ate gas station crackers by candlelight.”

Maya smiled at the memory. “That was actually kind of perfect.”

“It was,” he agreed. “But maybe this year doesn’t need to be perfect. Maybe it just needs to be… significant.”

She finally put the phone down. “What are you thinking?”

Liam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I was looking at the backyard this morning. That old maple is a mess. The back fence is starting to rot. We keep saying we’ll fix it up, make a proper space back there. What if we spent the weekend doing that? Together. Then on Sunday, we grill steaks on the patio we built, under the tree we pruned.”

Maya considered it, picturing the muddy yard, the hours of labor. It wasn't a romantic getaway. But then she looked at Liam, at the familiar lines around his eyes, and thought about the life they’d built inside these walls. The adventure wasn’t always in leaving.

“Okay,” she said, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “But I’m in charge of the playlist, and you’re buying the good steaks. And we’re getting that fancy lemonade from the farmer’s market.”

“Deal,” he said, his own smile finally breaking through. The rain continued to fall, but inside, the weekend had found its purpose. They weren’t just marking ten years; they were building the next one.


The late September light slanted through the kitchen window, catching the dust motes floating above the worn oak table. Elena traced the rim of her coffee mug, watching her husband, Mark, as he scrolled through his phone with a slight frown. Their fifteenth anniversary was on Saturday.

“We could try that new steakhouse downtown,” Mark offered, not looking up. “The one with the dry-aged ribeye. People say it’s incredible.”

Elena considered it. They’d had a good run of date nights lately, but this felt different. Fifteen years wasn’t just another dinner. “We could,” she said slowly. “Or…” She hesitated, then pushed the thought out. “Remember that bed and breakfast in Vermont? The one we stayed at during that crazy leaf-peeping trip?”

Mark finally put his phone down, a slow smile spreading. “The one with the claw-foot tub and the owner who kept trying to feed us maple candy?”

“That’s the one.” Elena smiled back. “I was thinking less about going away, and more about staying in. Remember the first year in this house? The power went out during that ice storm on our anniversary.”

Mark’s expression softened. He remembered. They’d eaten cold leftover pizza by candlelight, huddled under a blanket on the living room floor, and talked for hours. It was one of their best anniversaries, not because of what they did, but because of the feeling of being completely insulated from the world, just the two of them.

“No phones, no reservations,” Mark said, catching her idea. “We could cook that ridiculous lobster risotto we’ve never attempted. The recipe we clipped from the food section years ago.”

Elena’s eyes lit up. “And if it’s a disaster, we order Chinese. Like we did when we were broke.”

“Deal.” Mark reached across the table, his hand covering hers. “Fifteen years. Let’s see if we can still make a mess in the kitchen without killing each other.”

Elena squeezed his fingers, feeling the familiar warmth of his skin. “I think that’s the most romantic thing you’ve said in months.”


The morning of their tenth anniversary, rain streaked the kitchen windows. Lena stood at the counter, pouring coffee, while Mark leaned against the doorframe, scrolling through his phone.

“We could still drive up to the coast,” he said, not looking up. “The weather app says it might clear by noon.”

Lena handed him a mug. “A three-hour drive for a maybe. And then we’d have to find a place that takes walk-ins for lunch.”

“So we stay here.” He pocketed the phone. “Order from that Italian place. Watch a movie.”

“We do that every Friday.” She traced the rim of her mug with her finger. “Ten years. It should feel different.”

Mark sat down at the small table, the same one they’d bought at a yard sale their first month in the house. The finish was worn at the corners now. “What did we do for our fifth?”

“We went to that bed-and-breakfast in Vermont. You got food poisoning from the clam chowder.”

“Right.” He smiled ruefully. “So maybe not a repeat.”

Lena opened the refrigerator, then closed it. “The garden’s a mess. We could spend the day out there. Fix the trellis, plant the mums we bought last week.”

“That’s a chore, not an anniversary.”

“It’s something we built together,” she said quietly. “The first thing we planted out there was the lilac bush. You dug the hole, I held the roots.”

Mark was quiet for a moment. Then he stood and walked to the back door, peering through the rain-speckled glass. The lilac was there, heavy with water, its leaves dark and glossy.

“Okay,” he said. “How about this? We put on old boots, we fix the trellis, we plant the mums. And when we’re done, we get cleaned up and drive to that taco truck on Route 9. The one where we went on our third date.”

Lena looked at him. “That truck is still there?”

“I saw it last Tuesday. Same guy, same green awning.”

She smiled then, a real smile. “Deal. But you’re buying the horchata.”

“Naturally,” he said, and reached for his rain jacket.


The first real chill of autumn had settled over their street, turning the maple in the front yard to a blaze of orange. Inside, Sarah was at the kitchen table, her laptop open to a travel blog she hadn’t noticed she’d stopped reading. Across from her, Mark was nursing a cup of coffee, the sports section of the newspaper spread out before him, a ritual from another decade.

“So,” he said, not looking up, “ten years.”

“Ten years,” she echoed. The words felt substantial, like something you could hold. They’d been saving for a new water heater, and the roof needed patching before the first snow. A trip to Europe was a fantasy for another decade.

“We could do that bed and breakfast in the Poconos,” Mark offered, folding the paper. “The one with the big fireplace.”

Sarah closed her laptop. “We did that for our fifth. It was lovely, but… I don’t know. It felt like a performance, didn’t it? The perfect romantic getaway.”

He nodded, a small smile on his face. “You’re right. We spent the whole time worried about making reservations on time.” He leaned back, his chair creaking. “What do you actually want to do?”

She thought for a moment, her gaze drifting to the window. “I want to sleep in. In our own bed. No alarms.” She looked at him. “Then maybe we make that ridiculous pancake recipe—the one with the lemon zest and ricotta—and eat them while they’re still hot.”

Mark’s smile widened. “With the good maple syrup.”

“Obviously.” She laughed. “And then, we spend the afternoon doing the thing we always say we’ll do but never do.”

“Which is?”

“We take the canoe out on the reservoir. Just drift. Maybe bring that bottle of wine we’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

He considered this, picturing the quiet water, the two of them not needing to fill the silence. “And for dinner? We could finally try that new Thai place.”

“Or,” she countered, “we get takeout from there and eat it on the back porch, wrapped in blankets.”

Mark stood up and walked over to her, resting his hands on her shoulders. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “That sounds perfect. It sounds like us.” The expensive trip, the grand gesture, it all faded away. The best way to mark ten years, they realized, was simply to spend a day doing nothing, together.


The mail had piled up on the kitchen counter, a small drift of bills and catalogs, but on top sat a thick, cream-colored envelope. Inside was a gift certificate to The Gables, the restaurant where they’d had their first date, a present from Claire’s mother. Claire leaned against the counter, turning the card over in her hands as her husband, Ben, came in from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Mom sent us a dinner,” she said, holding it up. “For the big one-five.”

Ben tossed the rag onto the washing machine and came to stand beside her. “Fifteen years. That’s… a mortgage, two kids, and a dog ago.” He took the certificate, reading the embossed lettering. “That’s generous. We could get the tasting menu.”

“We could,” Claire agreed, her voice thoughtful. She looked out the window over the sink at their backyard, where the swing set was starting to rust and the hostas she’d planted last spring were finally filling in. “Or…” she began, drawing the word out.

“Or what?” Ben asked, a small smile playing on his lips. He knew that tone.

“Or,” she said, turning to face him, “we could get a sitter, go to The Gables, and just order the cheap pasta and a bottle of the house red. Then, with what we save, we could finally buy that Japanese maple for the corner of the yard.”

Ben’s smile widened. He glanced out at the yard himself, at the bare spot where the old, diseased elm had been taken out two years ago. He’d been researching varieties online for months, talking about the perfect crimson foliage. “The one from the nursery on Route 9? The ‘Bloodgood’?”

Claire nodded. “We could plant it the next morning. Together. It would be there for the next fifteen years.”

He put the gift certificate down on the counter and pulled her into a hug, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I love you,” he said. “And I love that you’d trade a fancy dessert for a tree.”

“It’s a better story,” Claire said, her voice muffled against his chest. “And I think we’ve earned a good story.”


The late September light slanted through the kitchen window, catching the dust motes floating above the worn oak table. Sarah traced the rim of her coffee mug, a small smile on her face. "Ten years," she said, the words feeling both immense and surprisingly light.

Across from her, David finished rinsing his plate and leaned against the counter, drying his hands on a dish towel. "A decade of putting up with my snoring," he said, his voice warm. "We should do something. A big trip? I was looking at flights to the Pacific Northwest."

Sarah considered it. The idea of misty coastlines and towering pines was appealing, but a quiet weariness settled in her bones. Work had been a relentless sprint for months. "It sounds beautiful," she admitted, "but honestly? The thought of packing a suitcase and navigating an airport makes me want to take a nap."

David nodded, his expression understanding. He knew her rhythms. "Okay, so no travel. A fancy dinner downtown? We could get dressed up, order the tasting menu."

She pictured it: the low lighting, the hushed conversations, the parade of intricate dishes. It was a lovely image, but it didn't feel quite right either. It felt like a performance. "We did that for my birthday," she reminded him gently. "And we spent the whole night talking about the kids."

He chuckled. "True. We are a cliché."

They were quiet for a moment, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator. Sarah's gaze drifted to the backyard, where the leaves on the maple tree were just beginning to turn. An idea, simple and clear, formed in her mind.

"What about the diner?" she asked. "The one on Route 9 where we went on our first real date?"

David’s eyes lit up with recognition. "The one with the sticky booths and the best blueberry pie?"

"That's the one," she said. "We could go for breakfast, like we did back then. No reservations, no dress code. Just eggs, bad coffee, and us."

He walked over and placed his hands on her shoulders, kissing the top of her head. "I love it. It’s perfect." He paused, a smile in his voice. "Maybe this time, I'll even let you have the last bite of my toast."

She laughed, a genuine, easy sound that filled the kitchen. "A true sign of a decade of growth." It wasn't a grand adventure, but it was theirs. It was the story of them, and that was enough.


The rain tapped a steady rhythm against the kitchen window, a soft percussion to the quiet of a Saturday morning. Daniel stood at the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs. Across the room, Maya was scrolling through her phone, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Okay,” she said, setting the phone down. “Our tenth anniversary. We should probably decide something before it decides for us.”

Daniel brought the mugs over and sat opposite her. “I’ve been thinking about that. My parents offered us their cabin in the Poconos for the weekend. Just us, the lake, and that fireplace.”

Maya wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, a thoughtful look on her face. “That sounds peaceful,” she admitted. “But remember what we talked about last year? We said for ten years, we wanted to do something… bigger. Something we’d remember.”

“I remember,” Daniel said, a small smile playing on his lips. “Which is why I also looked into that bed and breakfast in Savannah we always talk about. The one with the wrought-iron balconies.”

Maya’s eyes lit up. “The one from that travel blog? With the peach cobbler they serve on the veranda?”

“That’s the one.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “But then I thought, maybe the best way to mark ten years isn’t about going somewhere at all. Maybe it’s about bringing something new *here*.”

He nodded toward the backyard, visible through the sliding glass door. “We’ve been talking about building a fire pit for five years. I could get the stones this week. We could spend the weekend building it together, and then just… sit by the fire. In our own home.”

Maya was quiet for a moment, looking from the rain-streaked window to her husband’s face. The grand trip was a dream, but the fire pit was real. It was them.

“We could roast marshmallows,” she said finally, her voice soft. “And argue about the best way to stack the stones.”

Daniel squeezed her hand. “Exactly. Happy anniversary, darling.”


The framed photograph on the mantel had always been a quiet landmark in their living room, but on this particular Tuesday evening, it seemed to draw both of their eyes. Ten years. The smiling faces from their wedding day felt impossibly young.

Daniel broke the comfortable silence first, setting his book down. “So, Saturday. The big one-oh.” He leaned back into the worn leather sofa. “I was thinking we could finally try that new steakhouse downtown. The one with the dry-aged ribeye I keep reading about.”

Across the room, Lena paused her knitting, the wooden needles resting in her lap. “It does sound amazing,” she admitted, her voice thoughtful. “But I don’t know. A fancy dinner feels… expected. We do that for birthdays and promotions.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow, a familiar, affectionate gesture. “Okay, I’m listening. What’s the alternative? Skydiving? A hot air balloon ride?”

Lena laughed, a soft, genuine sound. “No, nothing like that. I was thinking about the beginning. Remember that first summer in the apartment on Maple Street? We were so broke we used to split one burrito from that taco truck and call it a date.”

A smile spread across Daniel’s face. “And we thought we were living like royalty.”

“Exactly,” she said, her eyes bright with the memory. “What if, instead of a fancy dinner, we just… recreate it? We could drive over to the old neighborhood, get a couple of burritos from that same truck—if it’s still there—and eat them on a park bench. Then come home, open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving, and just talk. Like we used to.”

Daniel considered this, picturing the noisy, chaotic taco truck versus the quiet elegance of a steakhouse. He imagined Lena’s face, not in the flattering light of a restaurant, but in the golden hour of a late afternoon, laughing with a bit of salsa on her chin. The choice wasn't about the food; it was about the feeling.

He nodded slowly, a deep warmth settling in his chest. “You’re right. The steakhouse will still be there next month. Let’s go find that taco truck.”


The September air had that first crisp bite as Maya pulled into the driveway, the garage door groaning its familiar complaint. Inside, she found David at the kitchen table, his laptop open, a half-empty mug of coffee beside him. He looked up with a tired smile.

“Hey,” he said, closing the screen. “I was just looking at flights.”

Maya set her bag on the counter. “Flights? To where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere. Anywhere.” He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “Ten years is a big one, Maya. We should do something… big. A trip. A real adventure.”

She filled a glass with water, the silence in the room suddenly heavy. The idea of a trip, of airports and itineraries, felt less like a celebration and more like a chore. Their life was a constant negotiation of schedules, carpools, and the low hum of exhaustion.

“What are you thinking?” David prompted gently. “Paris? We always talked about Paris.”

Maya turned to face him. “I was thinking about the backyard.”

He blinked. “The backyard?”

“Remember when we first moved in?” she said, walking to the sliding glass door. The yard was a patchy lawn bordered by overgrown shrubs, the wooden fence weathered and gray. “We had that old blanket, the one your mom gave us. We’d put it right there, under the maple, and split a bottle of cheap wine after we finished unpacking boxes. We didn’t have a couch yet, so we’d just sit out there for hours.”

David stood and came to stand beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. He looked out at the same scene, and for a moment, saw it through her memory.

“We could do that,” she said. “But better. We could finally build that stone fire pit we’ve talked about for five years. Get some good steaks, a really nice bottle of wine. No packing, no security lines. Just… us. In the place we built together.”

David was quiet, his gaze fixed on the old maple tree. He put his arm around her, pulling her close. “We could get one of those fancy apple pies from the orchard,” he murmured.

Maya smiled against his shoulder. “The one with the crumble on top.”

“The one with the crumble on top,” he agreed. A slow smile spread across his face as the tension of planning a grand gesture melted away. “I think I like your adventure better.”


The September air had turned sharp, carrying the scent of dry leaves through the open kitchen window. Mark dried a mixing bowl, his gaze drifting to the calendar stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a lobster. October 12th was circled in red ink.

“Ten years,” he said, not really to anyone.

Claire looked up from her laptop at the kitchen table, her reading glasses perched on her nose. “It feels both longer and shorter, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” He hung the bowl on a hook. “We should do something. Not just dinner at the same place.”

She closed the laptop, giving him her full attention. “I was thinking the same thing. My parents offered to take the kids for a long weekend. But I don’t want to fly anywhere. I don’t want to spend half the time in an airport.”

“Agreed.” Mark leaned against the counter. “What about that inn up in the mountains? The one with the big stone fireplace. We could drive up, hike a little, and just… be quiet.”

Claire considered it. The idea was appealing—cozy, low-stress. But it felt like a retreat, a running away. “It’s tempting. But for our tenth, I feel like we should do something more active. Something that’s about us, not just escaping from the kids.”

Mark nodded slowly. “Like what?”

She fiddled with the corner of a napkin. “What about the city? We could get a hotel for one night, go to that French bistro we’ve always talked about, and then see a show. Something with music. We haven’t done that since before Sam was born.”

Mark smiled, picturing it. “A little loud, a little crowded. The opposite of the mountains.”

“Exactly. A celebration instead of a hibernation.”

He walked over and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I like it. But if we’re doing the city, I get to pick the after-show dessert. There’s that speakeasy with the famous bread pudding.”

Claire grinned, leaning her head back against him. “Deal. You handle the sugar, I’ll book the hotel. Happy almost-anniversary.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Happy almost-anniversary.”


The late September light fell in long, amber rectangles across the kitchen floor, dust motes swimming in the beams. Mark stood at the counter, sorting through a pile of mail, while Lena rinsed a coffee mug in the sink. They had been circling the topic all week, the way you might circle a sleeping dog, unsure if it was friendly.

Their tenth anniversary was on Saturday.

“I saw the flyer for the fall festival at Miller’s Farm,” Mark said, his voice a little too casual. He held up a brightly colored piece of paper. “Hayrides, a corn maze, apple cider donuts. Could be fun.”

Lena turned off the water and dried her hands on a dishtowel. She leaned a hip against the counter, considering it. “It could be,” she agreed. “But ten years feels… bigger than a hayride, doesn’t it?” She didn’t mean it as a criticism, and he knew it. They had spent their first anniversary there, broke and giddy, sharing a single cider donut.

“Yeah,” he admitted, dropping the flyer. “That’s what I was thinking. My parents offered to take the kids for the whole weekend.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. A whole weekend. The house would be quiet.

Lena’s eyebrows rose. A quiet house was a rare and precious commodity. A whole weekend was a luxury on par with a winning lottery ticket. “A whole weekend,” she echoed, a slow smile starting to form.

“I was thinking,” Mark said, moving closer, “we could do absolutely nothing. Order in from that expensive Italian place. Sleep until nine. Watch a movie that isn’t animated.” He reached for her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. “Or, we could go all out. Book a room at that inn upstate, the one with the big fireplace.”

Lena looked at their joined hands, then out the window at their modest backyard with the swing set and the patchy grass. The grand gesture was tempting, a shiny bauble. But the quiet one felt more like them.

“How about both?” she suggested. “Stay here, in the quiet. We can build a fire in the fire pit, drink that bottle of wine we’ve been saving, and just… talk. Without being interrupted.” She squeezed his hand. “I think what I want most is to just be with you. Not the dad, not the mom. Just us.”

Mark’s face relaxed into a genuine smile. “That,” he said, pulling her into a hug, “sounds perfect.”


The morning of their tenth anniversary, Daniel found Lena in the kitchen, frowning at her phone. The early light caught the silver strands just beginning to appear at her temples, a detail he’d come to love. She was scrolling through a list of bed-and-breakfasts in the Hudson Valley, their usual fall escape.

“I’m striking out,” she said, not looking up. “Everything’s either booked or requires a two-night minimum. And the prices…” She let the sentence trail off.

Daniel poured himself a coffee and leaned against the counter. He’d been thinking about this too. Ten years felt significant, a landmark that deserved more than a fleeting weekend. He thought of the last decade—the two moves, the loss of her father, the quiet joy of adopting their old dog, Gus, now snoring in a patch of sun.

“What if we didn’t go anywhere?” he asked.

Lena finally looked up, her expression a mixture of disappointment and curiosity. “Stay here? For our tenth?”

“Hear me out,” he said, setting his mug down. “What if we did the thing we never do? We take the week. No work emails. We cook that ridiculous seafood paella from the cookbook your sister gave us. We finally plant that dogwood tree we’ve been talking about for three years. We sleep in.”

Lena was quiet for a moment, her thumb still hovering over the phone screen. The idea was a departure. They were a couple of planners, of booked itineraries and packed weekends. A staycation felt almost radical.

“You mean, actually inhabit the house we pay a mortgage for?” she said, a slow smile beginning to form.

“Exactly,” Daniel replied. “Let’s celebrate the life we’ve built, not the one we need a vacation from.”

She put the phone down on the counter, the screen going dark. The tension in her shoulders seemed to dissolve. “Okay,” she said. “But I’m in charge of the paella, and you’re on dog-walking duty.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

Outside, Gus stretched, his tail thumping a lazy rhythm against the floorboards, as if he approved of the plan to stay home.


The October light was fading early when Daniel came in from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen better days. He found Maya at the kitchen table, her laptop open, a stack of old photo albums beside her. She was tracing a finger over a faded snapshot from their honeymoon in Maine.

“Twenty years,” she said, without looking up. “It doesn’t feel that long.”

“My knees would disagree,” he said, hanging his jacket on the hook by the door. He walked over and peered at the photo. “God, look at that rental car. We thought we were so stylish.”

Maya laughed, a soft, low sound. “We were. In our own way.” She closed the album. “So. The question stands. What do we do?”

Daniel pulled out the chair across from her. They had been going back and forth for a week. A trip to the coast? A fancy dinner downtown? Renewing their vows in the backyard? Each idea felt either too expensive, too exhausting, or too much like a performance.

“I was thinking,” he said, “about the first year in this house. The winter we had no money for a headboard, so we just painted a rectangle on the wall behind the bed.”

Maya smiled. “And the time we tried to make paella and set off the smoke alarm. We ended up eating cereal on the porch.”

“Best paella I ever had,” Daniel said.

She reached across the table and took his hand. Her skin was warm from the tea mug. “What if we don’t go anywhere? What if we just… recreate that first weekend? The one right after we moved in. We order from that terrible Chinese place that’s somehow still open, we watch that old movie we both fell asleep during, and we sleep in the living room on the pullout couch like we did before the bed frame arrived.”

Daniel considered it. The idea was quiet, unglamorous, and deeply familiar. It was the opposite of a grand gesture.

“That,” he said, squeezing her hand, “is the best idea you’ve had in twenty years.”

“Twenty years and three months,” she corrected. “I had a good one in July.”

He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go find the sleeping bags.”


The first Saturday in October arrived with a chill in the air that hadn't been there the week before. Mark was at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone, when Elena came in with two mugs of coffee. She set one down beside him and glanced at the screen.

“Planning our big day?” she asked, a hint of a smile on her face.

“Trying to,” he said, leaning back. “Ten years. It feels like it should be… something. A trip, a big dinner, something.”

Elena sat across from him, wrapping her hands around her mug. “I was thinking about that too. I looked at flights to the coast. But then I remembered the pipes in the downstairs bathroom.”

Mark sighed. The quote from the plumber was still on the counter, a stark, unromantic number. “I know. And the car is making that sound again. A big trip might be irresponsible right now.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of practicality settling over the quiet kitchen. Outside, a gust of wind sent a flurry of crimson and gold leaves skittering across the deck.

“What if we didn’t go anywhere?” Elena said finally.

Mark looked at her, curious.

“What if we just… stayed here?” she continued. “We could send the kids to my sister’s for the night. We could turn off our phones, make that pasta with the expensive mushrooms we always say we’ll make, and open the bottle of wine we bought in Napa on our honeymoon.”

“The one we’ve been saving for a ‘special enough’ occasion?” Mark asked, a slow smile spreading across his face. He’d almost forgotten it was tucked away in the back of the pantry.

“Exactly,” she said. “No reservations, no traffic, no packing. Just us. In the house we’ve built together. We could even watch our wedding video, if you promise not to make fun of my hair.”

Mark reached across the table and took her hand. “I think that sounds perfect,” he said. “Maybe we can finally fix that creaky board on the deck too.”

Elena laughed. “Let’s not get crazy. But maybe on Sunday.”


The September light was fading to a soft amber when Daniel came in from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. He found Maya at the kitchen table, her laptop open, a faint crease between her brows. “Looking at flights again?” he asked, hanging the rag on the oven handle.

“Not exactly,” she said, turning the screen toward him. It showed a local pottery studio’s website, advertising a two-day wheel-throwing workshop. “Our tenth anniversary is in three weeks. I was thinking… maybe instead of a trip, we do this.”

Daniel pulled out the chair beside her and sat. He studied the photos of clay-splattered hands and finished stoneware bowls. “Pottery?” he said, not unkindly, just surprised. “We’ve never done anything like that.”

“I know. That’s why I thought of it.” Maya closed the laptop halfway. “We keep saying we want to do something meaningful, not just expensive. Last year’s dinner was lovely, but I can’t remember what we ate. I’d remember making something with you.”

He considered this. For their fifth anniversary, they had flown to Seattle. For their seventh, they had hiked a section of the Appalachian Trail. Those were good memories, but they had also involved planning, packing, and a certain pressure to enjoy every moment. This felt quieter.

“We could make two mugs,” he said slowly. “Ugly ones, probably.”

Maya laughed, a soft, genuine sound. “They’d be our ugly mugs. We’d use them every morning.”

He reached over and placed his hand over hers on the table. The idea was growing on him—the thought of sitting side by side, learning something clumsy and new, with no itinerary except the slow spin of the wheel. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it. But I’m warning you, my centering skills are going to be terrible.”

“Good,” she said, leaning her shoulder against his. “Then we’ll be terrible together.” Outside, the first crickets began their evening song, and the house settled around them, full of the quiet promise of making something from scratch.


The kitchen still smelled of coffee and the faint, sweet scent of the lemon poppy seed bread Daniel had baked that morning. Maya stood at the counter, sorting through a stack of mail, while Daniel rinsed his mug in the sink. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing between them.

“Ten years,” Maya said, not looking up from a credit card offer. “Ten years on Saturday. It feels… significant.”

Daniel dried his hands on a dishtowel and leaned against the counter, his expression thoughtful. “It does. Not just another year.” He paused, watching a robin hop across the back lawn. “My parents would offer to fly us to Hawaii. Or throw a big party.”

“Mine would send a very tasteful, very expensive crystal vase we’d be terrified to ever use,” Maya countered with a small smile. They had built a life deliberately different from their parents, a life of quiet routines and deep, unshowy affection. The idea of a grand gesture felt foreign.

“So, what feels right?” he asked, turning to face her. “A fancy dinner downtown? We could get dressed up, go to that new tasting-menu place.”

Maya considered it. “We could. But we’d have to book it, find parking, maybe make small talk with the couple at the next table.” She shook her head gently. “That’s a celebration of a date, not a marriage.”

Daniel nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. He knew her as well as he knew the pattern of the creaks in their hallway floor. “What about the opposite? We could stay here. I’ll cook the meal we had on our first anniversary—the disastrous lasagna, but a version that actually works this time. We can open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving, the one from the trip to Sonoma. No phones, no TV. Just us.”

Maya’s face softened. She remembered that first attempt at lasagna, the burnt edges and the raw center, how they’d ended up eating cereal on the floor of their first apartment, laughing until they cried. It was more than a memory; it was a foundation stone.

“That,” she said, crossing the kitchen to wrap her arms around his waist, “sounds perfect.”


The late September light fell in long, amber stripes across the kitchen floor as Daniel rinsed the last of the breakfast dishes. He glanced over his shoulder at his wife, Maya, who was sitting at the table, her laptop open but her eyes fixed on the calendar hanging on the wall. The tenth was circled in red marker.

“We keep saying we’ll do something,” she said, not looking away from the date. “And then the day comes, and we end up getting takeout and falling asleep on the couch.”

Daniel dried his hands on a dishtowel and leaned against the counter. “To be fair, that couch is very comfortable.”

Maya finally met his eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. “Ten years, Dan. We should mark it with something more than a nap.”

He walked over and sat down across from her. “Okay. What did you have in mind? A trip? A fancy dinner?”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to get on a plane, and I don’t want to sit in a crowded restaurant.” She paused, thinking. “Remember what we did for our first anniversary? We were broke. We drove up to the state park with that cheap bottle of wine and a bag of sandwiches.”

Daniel laughed. “And it rained the whole time. We ate in the car.”

“And it was perfect,” she said. “We just talked for hours.”

He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “So, what are you suggesting? A repeat performance, minus the downpour?”

“Maybe a version of it,” she said. “We could drive up to the mountains for the day. No schedule, no reservations. Just us, the leaves changing, and a decent bottle of wine this time. We can pack a real picnic.”

Daniel considered it, his thumb tracing a small circle on the back of her hand. A grand gesture had never been their style. Their life was built in these quiet negotiations, in the small, shared decisions that formed the foundation of a decade. A long drive, a good view, and her company sounded more valuable than any overpriced hotel room.

“I think that sounds perfect,” he said. “But I’m driving. You always get us lost.”

“I do not,” she protested, her smile widening.

“The mountain roads are different,” he insisted. “I’m in charge of navigation. You’re in charge of the sandwiches.”

Maya closed her laptop. “Deal.” She looked back at the circled date, and for the first time, it felt less like a deadline and more like a promise.


The September air had that crisp, apple-cider bite as Elena sat at the kitchen island, a stack of takeout menus fanned out before her. Ten years. A decade of shared mortgage payments, Sunday crossword puzzles, and the comfortable, familiar rhythm of their life. Her husband, David, came in from the garage, wiping his hands on an old rag.

“The lawnmower’s officially retired,” he announced, tossing the rag into the laundry basket. He saw the menus and raised an eyebrow. “Pizza for the big one-oh?”

“I was thinking we could get that deep-dish from Gino’s,” she said, her voice a little too bright. “The one we had on our first anniversary. Remember? We couldn’t finish it and ate the leftovers for breakfast in bed.”

David smiled, the memory softening the lines around his eyes. He walked over and stood behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. “I remember. But we can get Gino’s any Friday.” He squeezed gently. “Ten years feels bigger than takeout.”

Elena leaned back into his touch. “I know. I just… we’ve been so busy. A trip feels like too much to plan, and a fancy dinner feels like a performance.” She gestured vaguely at the house around them. “This is where we live our life. Maybe we should just… be here.”

David was quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting to the backyard through the sliding glass door. The maple tree they’d planted their first spring was a blaze of orange and red. “What about right there?” he asked, nodding toward the yard.

“The backyard?”

“We could finally build that fire pit,” he said. “We’ve talked about it for two years. We could get the good steaks from the butcher, open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving, and just sit by the fire. No reservations, no traffic. Just us.”

Elena turned on her stool to look at him, a genuine smile finally breaking through. The idea wasn’t grand, but it was theirs. It was an investment in the next ten years of their shared space.

“I love it,” she said. “You grill, I’ll handle the wine. And maybe, for one night, we can leave our phones inside.” David grinned, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “It’s a date,” he said. “A backyard, no-pizza-allowed, ten-year date.”


The September air had a bite to it, a hint of the coming autumn, as Elena stood at the kitchen sink, looking out at the maple tree in their backyard. Its leaves were just starting to turn, a blush of orange at the very tips. She heard the familiar thud of David’s boots on the porch, then the creak of the screen door.

“Hey,” he said, his voice still carrying the chill from outside. He set his thermos on the counter with a soft clink.

“Hey yourself,” she replied, turning. “Fifteen years next Saturday.”

“I know,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips. “I’ve been thinking about that.” He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. “My first thought was that little bed-and-breakfast in Vermont. The one with the apple orchard.”

Elena’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly. “It’s a lovely thought, but that’s a six-hour drive. What about the dog? And I’d have to take Friday off to make it worthwhile.”

David nodded, his gaze dropping to the worn floorboards. “Right. I forgot about the Henderson project. And boarding Charlie feels wrong for just a weekend.”

A quiet settled between them, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator. They’d been doing this dance for years, the negotiation between grand plans and practical realities.

“What about this,” Elena said, drying her hands on a towel. “We don’t go anywhere. We get a bottle of that good Rioja from the wine shop, the one we had on our honeymoon. I’ll make paella.”

David looked up, his expression softening. “The one that takes three hours and makes the whole house smell like saffron?”

“The very one,” she confirmed.

A genuine smile spread across his face. “And we can finally watch that documentary on the national parks?”

“And maybe look through the old photo albums,” she added. “Remember when we thought we were so adventurous?”

He walked over and put his hands on her shoulders, his touch warm. “We were. And we still are, just in a different way. It’s a date.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead. The plan wasn’t a grand escape, but it was theirs, built from the comfortable, solid materials of their life together.


The morning of their tenth anniversary, the house was quiet save for the slow drip of the coffee maker. Sarah stood at the kitchen window, watching a pair of finches argue over the feeder. She heard David’s footsteps on the stairs, then felt his hand settle on her shoulder.

“Happy decade,” he said, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

She turned, smiling. “Happy decade.”

They sat at the small table by the window, the one with the wobbly leg they’d been meaning to fix for three years. Between them lay the unspoken question: what to do? A decade felt weighty, deserving of more than a card and a forgettable dinner.

“I was thinking,” David began, tracing the rim of his mug. “We could go back to that little inn in Vermont. The one with the terrible Wi-Fi and the amazing maple syrup.”

Sarah considered it. The memory was a good one—a long weekend early in their marriage, snowed in, playing Scrabble by the fire. But it also felt like a retreat into the past.

“That’s tempting,” she said. “But what if we did something that points forward instead of back? We’ve been talking about redoing the backyard for years. We could spend the weekend finally building that stone fire pit. Just us, some good music, and a lot of dirt.”

David leaned back, a slow grin spreading across his face. He had proposed in that very backyard, on a patch of patchy grass, with a ring he’d hidden in a potted geranium. “A project,” he said, nodding. “I like that. We’d be building something new on the spot where it all started.”

“Exactly,” Sarah said, reaching across the table to take his hand. “Our own little monument. And we can christen it with a bottle of that cheap champagne we drank on our wedding night.”

He squeezed her fingers. “It’s a plan. But I’m in charge of the s’mores.”

“Deal,” she laughed. The finches scattered, and the sun finally broke through the clouds, filling the kitchen with a warm, promising light.


The kitchen still held the warmth of the evening sun as Lena dried the last of the wine glasses. Across the room, Mark was hunched over his laptop at the breakfast bar, but his eyes weren't on the screen. They were fixed on a point in the middle distance, a slight frown creasing his brow.

“You’re doing it again,” Lena said softly, hanging the dishtowel on the oven handle.

Mark blinked and looked up. “Doing what?”

“Thinking so hard you’re about to sprain something.” She moved to stand beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “What’s up?”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “The fifteenth is in three weeks. I was looking at that inn up in the mountains we talked about years ago, but….” He gestured vaguely at the screen. “The prices are insane now. And I’d have to move my work trip.”

Lena pulled out the stool next to him and sat. “I know. I looked at flights to Charleston last week. Same story. It felt like we were trying to force a ‘grand gesture’ just because it’s a milestone.”

“But it *is* a milestone,” he countered, turning to face her. “Fifteen years. We should do something… significant.”

“What’s more significant than what we do every day?” she asked, her tone gentle but serious. “We built a life here. Why not celebrate that?”

He looked at her, his expression softening. “What did you have in mind?”

“Remember the summer we bought this place? The first thing we did was rip out the ugly bushes in the front and plant that dogwood. We promised we’d build a proper stone bench under it when we had the time.” She smiled. “We have time now. We could do it together. This weekend.”

Mark’s frown dissolved, replaced by a slow, genuine smile. “And then sit on it with a beer and watch the neighborhood go by?”

“Exactly,” she said, her eyes bright. “Maybe even grill some steaks. Just the two of us.”

He closed the laptop. The decision felt solid, real. “That sounds perfect,” he said. “Let’s go pick out the stone on Saturday.” He reached over and gave her hand a squeeze, the unspoken agreement between them more valuable than any trip.


The September light was thinning, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor as Elena poured two glasses of wine. Outside, the first few leaves of the maple were tinged with red. On the counter, a pile of brochures sat next to a half-opened laptop, a silent testament to their indecision.

“So,” she said, sliding a glass toward her husband, Mark, who was rinsing lettuce at the sink. “Ten years. We need to decide.”

Mark dried his hands on a dish towel and took the wine. “I know. The Grand Canyon trip is still available, but so is that cabin in the Smokies. Quiet, hot tub, no cell service…” He let the last part hang in the air, a tempting proposition after a chaotic year at work.

Elena leaned against the counter, her brow furrowed. “The canyon is a bigger deal, though. It feels more… monumental. Like it properly marks the occasion.” She gestured vaguely at the brochures. “But the flights are pricey, and we’d be hiking all day. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.”

Mark nodded, taking a sip of his wine. He walked over and stood beside her, their shoulders touching. “Monumental is good. But remember our fifth anniversary? We went to New York, saw three shows, walked about forty miles, and came home needing a vacation from our vacation.”

A small smile touched Elena’s lips. “I remember the blisters.” She looked at him, her expression softening. “But I also remember standing in Central Park with you, thinking I was the luckiest person in the world.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist. “We could have that feeling on a quiet trail, too. Just us, the sound of the creek, a bottle of good bourbon.” He paused. “I just want to be with you, Lena. Not rushing to a tour bus.”

She sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder. The truth was, she didn’t need a landmark to validate their marriage. She looked at the stack of brochures and then at the man beside her, the one who knew exactly how she took her coffee and could still make her laugh until she cried.

“Okay,” she said softly. “The cabin.”

He kissed the top of her head. “No cell service it is.”


The paint swatches were still taped to the kitchen wall, a small, hopeful grid of blues and greens they’d been ignoring for a month. Sarah leaned against the counter, her coffee mug warm in her hands, and looked at them. “Ten years,” she said, more to the room than to him.

Mark looked up from his tablet at the kitchen table. “Feels longer,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips. “And shorter, somehow.” He set the tablet down. “So, what do you want to do? Big trip? Fancy dinner?”

Sarah shook her head, her gaze still on the swatches. “We did the big trip for our fifth. Remember? The delayed flight, the lost luggage, the food poisoning.” She finally turned to him. “I don’t want to orchestrate anything. I don’t want reservations or itineraries.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, leaning back in his chair. “So, what does that leave? A quiet night in? We do that every Friday.”

“I know,” she said, pushing off the counter and walking to the table. She sat down across from him. “But this house… we’ve been talking about painting this kitchen for six months. We keep saying ‘someday.’ What if our anniversary is ‘someday’?”

Mark’s brow furrowed for a second, then his expression cleared. “You want to paint the kitchen for our tenth anniversary?”

“I want to *do* something,” she corrected gently. “Together. Something that makes a mark on this place we’ve built. Not just a memory, but a change we can see every day. We can order pizza, open a bottle of that wine we’ve been saving, and just… paint. Talk. Not about work or bills, but about us.”

He looked around the kitchen, at the scuffed baseboards and the dated light fixture. He saw the years of meals and arguments and laughter embedded in the walls. A trip would be an escape. This was an investment.

“We’d have to agree on a color,” he said, a challenge in his voice.

Sarah’s face broke into a wide grin. “We’ve narrowed it down to four. We can flip a coin.”

Mark stood and walked over to the swatches, his finger tracing the edge of a deep, calming blue called ‘Harbor Mist.’ “You know,” he said, turning back to her, “I think I’d rather argue about paint with you than sit on a beach anywhere else.”


The week before their tenth anniversary, Lena found Marcus in the garage, staring at the wall where his road bike usually hung. The empty hooks looked accusatory.

“Sold it,” he said, without turning around. “Got a good price.”

Lena leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed against the evening chill. “You loved that bike.”

He shrugged. “We’ve been talking about the patio. The concrete’s cracked all to hell. Figured we could finally get it repaved, maybe put in a fire pit. Do it right.”

She knew what this was. For a decade, their anniversary had been a quiet dinner, maybe a movie. But this one felt heavier, a milestone that demanded more than a reservation. Marcus’s solution was to pour money into the house, to mark the time by improving the property that contained their life.

“I don’t want a fire pit,” she said softly.

He finally turned, his brow furrowed. “What do you want, then? A trip? We could go somewhere. Mexico, maybe. Just say the word.”

She walked over to him, her slippers scuffing on the dusty concrete. “I was thinking about the coast. That little motel we stayed at on our honeymoon, the one with the terrible coffee and the screen door that always slammed.”

He winced. “That place was a dump, Lena. It’s probably condemned by now.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But I remember sitting on that rickety balcony with you, eating gas station donuts, and thinking I’d never been happier.” She reached out and straightened the collar of his flannel shirt. “We’ve spent ten years building this life, this house. And I love it. But for one weekend, I don’t want to build or fix or improve anything. I just want to go back to the beginning and remember what it felt like when all we had was a bad motel and each other.”

He was quiet for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. “They did have awful coffee.”

“The worst,” she agreed.

He pulled her into a hug, his chin resting on the top of her head. “Okay. Let’s go find our dump.”


The last of the autumn light was fading against the kitchen window, casting long shadows across the pine table where Daniel and Maria sat. A stack of takeout menus sat between them, a testament to their indecision. Their tenth anniversary was on Saturday, and the usual celebratory dinner felt insufficient.

“We could just go to The Steeple,” Daniel said, tapping a menu. “We know it’s good. Reliable.”

Maria shook her head, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Reliable is for a Tuesday night. This is ten years. It should feel… deliberate.” She looked at him, her brown eyes serious. “I don’t want to just sit across from you in a crowded room and shout over the noise.”

Daniel leaned back, the old chair creaking in protest. He knew what she meant. The last year had been a blur of work deadlines and home repairs, their conversations often logistical rather than intimate. “Okay,” he agreed. “No shouting. What did we do for our first anniversary?”

A small smile touched Maria’s lips. “We were broke. We got that cheap bottle of red wine, a loaf of sourdough, some cheddar, and drove up to Miller’s Point. We sat on the hood of your old Honda and watched the sunset.”

Daniel’s face softened at the memory. “We talked for hours. You told me you wanted to learn pottery.”

“And you told me you were afraid of being a boring husband.”

“Am I?” he asked with a wry grin.

“Never,” she said, her smile growing. “What if we did that again?”

“Sit on the Honda? It’s long gone, honey.”

“The spirit of it,” she said, leaning forward, her elbows on the table. “Let’s not go out. Let’s make a deliberate meal together. A good bottle of wine, some of that sharp cheddar, the fig jam you like. We can build a fire in the backyard pit, put on the playlist from when we were dating, and just… talk. No phones.”

Daniel considered it. The idea felt both simple and profound. He reached across the table, his hand covering hers. “I think that’s the best plan we’ve had in a while.” He paused, squeezing her fingers. “I’ll get the firewood ready. You’re in charge of the wine.”

“Deal,” she said, her eyes bright. “And Daniel? Let’s make sure we get the good bread.”


The September light was thinning into that particular amber that made their living room feel suspended in time. Daniel sat on the couch, one ankle resting on his knee, a half-finished crossword on his lap. Across from him, in the armchair by the window, Maya closed her book with a soft thump.

“Ten years,” she said, not looking at him but at the dust motes drifting in the light. “It feels both longer and shorter.”

Daniel nodded, setting down his pen. “I was thinking about that cabin in the Blue Ridge. The one with the wood stove and the terrible cell service.”

Maya smiled faintly. “Where you tried to impress me by chopping wood and nearly took off your thumb?”

“I prefer to remember it as a controlled demonstration of my wilderness skills,” he said. “But yes, that one.”

She shook her head. “We’ve done that. Twice. It’s our default.”

“Because it works.”

“Because it’s easy,” she corrected, her tone gentle but firm. “We hide in the woods and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. For our tenth, maybe we should do the opposite. Let the world in a little.”

Daniel leaned back, considering. “Like a party? We said we’d never be those people with the catered anniversary bash.”

“Not a bash,” Maya said. “A dinner. The long table in the backyard before it gets too cold. String lights. The people who’ve actually known us for the whole decade—or most of it. Your sister, the Wilsons, Tom from your old job.”

“Tom?” Daniel raised an eyebrow.

“He was at our wedding. He cried.”

“He was drunk.”

“He still cried,” Maya said. “I think it’s honest. A celebration of staying. Not just us, but everyone who stayed in our lives while we were busy staying together.”

Daniel was quiet for a moment, then looked around the room—at the books they’d both read, the lamp they’d argued about buying, the small crack in the ceiling from the winter of the ice dams. “It does feel more like a milestone than a getaway,” he admitted. “And we can still escape to the cabin for our eleventh.”

Maya stood and walked over, sitting beside him on the couch. She took the crossword from his lap and placed it on the coffee table. “So we’re doing it? The dinner?”

He took her hand, his thumb tracing the familiar ridge of her wedding band. “We’re doing it. But I’m not making a toast. You know I’ll choke up.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “That’s exactly why you should.”


The October light was thinning through the kitchen window as Daniel set two mugs of tea on the table. He sat down across from Lena, who was scrolling through her phone with a slight frown.

“Everything’s either a four-course dinner we can’t afford or a pottery class where we’d just make uneven bowls,” she said, tilting the screen toward him. “I don’t want to do something just to post about it.”

Daniel wrapped his hands around his mug, the warmth seeping into his knuckles. Their tenth anniversary was on Saturday. They’d spent the last week batting around ideas—a weekend in the mountains, a fancy restaurant in the city, a brewery tour—but nothing had stuck. The couch in the living room had a broken spring, the water heater was making a new groaning sound in the mornings, and a weekend away felt like ignoring the house’s quiet requests for attention.

“What if we just stay here?” he said.

Lena looked up. “Here, as in our house?”

“We keep saying we don’t have time to do the things we actually like. I haven’t touched my guitar in two months. You’ve got that puzzle still in the box from your sister.”

She considered this. “So, no reservation. No traffic.”

“We could make your grandmother’s lasagna. The one that takes all afternoon. I’ll get a decent bottle of wine. We can eat in the dining room for once, not on the couch.”

A small smile appeared. “And then you’d play that song you were writing? The one with the weird tuning?”

“If you promise not to laugh when I forget the bridge.”

“I won’t laugh,” she said, reaching across the table to rest her hand on his. “I’ll just hum the part you’re missing.”

Daniel turned his palm up, lacing his fingers with hers. Outside, a gust of wind sent a scatter of maple leaves across the driveway. The house creaked once, settling, as if it had been listening and approved.


The last of the October light was fading, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor. Elena stood at the counter, sorting through a pile of mail, while Mark leaned against the doorframe, a dish towel slung over his shoulder.

“Ten years,” he said, the words hanging in the quiet air. “It feels both like a lifetime and a blink.”

Elena looked up, a faint smile touching her lips. “A lifetime of mortgage payments and a blink of everything else.” She tossed a flyer into the recycling bin. “So, what are we doing?”

He walked over and took a stack of junk mail from her hands, setting it aside. “That’s the question. We could do the big thing. Book a room at that inn in the Hudson Valley, the one with the fireplace and the overpriced cheese plates.”

“Tempting,” she admitted, leaning her hip against the counter. “But then there’s the drive, and finding someone to watch Leo, and we’d probably just end up talking about whether we left the garage door open.”

Mark chuckled. “True. Or,” he said, his voice softening, “we could do the other thing.”

“The other thing?”

He gestured toward the living room. “We could get a bottle of that good wine we’ve been saving. I’ll cook the pasta with the slow-roasted tomatoes, the one I made on our first anniversary in the old apartment. We can put on that playlist from the summer we got married, and we can just… be here. In the house we built this life in.”

Elena considered it, her gaze drifting to the worn spot on the sofa where they spent every evening. The grand gesture was appealing in its romance, but it felt like a performance. This felt like a remembering.

“You know,” she said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “that first anniversary, we were so broke we ate that pasta by candlelight because the power had gone out.”

“And you said it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to you,” Mark reminded her.

“It still is,” she said. “Let’s do that. But maybe we keep the lights on this time.” She reached out and took his hand. “Happy anniversary, Mark.”

He squeezed her fingers. “Happy anniversary, Elena.”


The September air had a crispness to it as Maya stood at the kitchen counter, sorting through a stack of mail. She paused, a brochure for a mountain resort in her hand, its cover a photograph of a couple on a deck, wrapped in a blanket, staring at a valley of turning leaves. “What about this?” she asked, holding it up.

Her husband, Daniel, was at the kitchen table, carefully gluing a broken handle back onto a ceramic mug. He looked up, squinting at the glossy paper. “Looks peaceful,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “But it’s a five-hour drive. And I know how you feel about winding mountain roads.”

Maya sighed, dropping the brochure onto the pile. “True. And it might be too cold for stargazing anyway.” Their tenth anniversary was in two weeks, and the question of how to mark it hung between them, a pleasant but persistent pressure. They had ruled out a big party, a foreign trip, and anything that felt like an obligation.

“You know,” Daniel said, setting the mug down with a satisfied nod. “I was thinking. Remember that first apartment? The one with the fire escape where we’d sit and eat cheap Thai food and talk about the future?”

Maya smiled, the memory vivid. “The one with the perpetually dripping faucet and the neighbor who practiced the tuba.”

“Exactly. What if we recreated that? Not the tuba, obviously.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “We could get takeout from that same Thai place—it’s still there—and have a picnic on the back deck. We could drag out the old record player, listen to that scratched-up Van Morrison album, and just… talk. Like we used to.”

Maya considered it. A quiet evening at home, no reservations, no traffic. The idea was simple, but it was rooted in their shared history, in the very foundation of their life together. She walked over and placed her hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his flannel shirt.

“I love it,” she said softly. “But I’m making the playlist. And we’re getting the good spring rolls.” Daniel grinned, the tension in his shoulders releasing. “Deal.” The decision, once made, felt less like a compromise and more like the most natural thing in the world.