On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found Marcus in the kitchen, studying a grocery list as if it were a legal document.

“You forgot dessert,” she said, reaching around him for the coffee.

“I did not forget dessert. I left room for negotiation.”

They had agreed on a quiet evening at home in their townhouse outside Baltimore. No restaurant reservations, no party, no gifts that required financing. Marcus would cook the mushroom risotto they had eaten on their first trip to Chicago, and Elena would choose the music and find the bottle of wine they had been saving.

After work, they met at the neighborhood grocery store. Marcus inspected mushrooms while Elena hunted for fresh thyme. When the store was out, she persuaded him to substitute rosemary, though he warned that this made the meal “historically inaccurate.”

Back home, they worked side by side. Marcus chopped onions and stirred the rice. Elena set the table with their wedding china, then climbed onto a chair to retrieve the wine from the top cabinet. When the cork broke, Marcus tried a screwdriver. Elena stopped him before he pushed cork into the bottle and found a video showing how to ease it out with a wooden spoon.

The risotto turned out slightly salty. The candle Elena lit leaned dangerously toward the flowers. Halfway through dinner, their smoke detector began chirping because Marcus had forgotten the bread under the broiler.

They opened the windows, laughing as cold October air swept through the dining room. Elena rescued the bread’s least-burned edges, and Marcus brought out two slices of grocery-store cheesecake he had secretly added to the cart.

Later, they sat on the couch beneath an old quilt, listening to the playlist Elena had made from songs they both remembered differently.

“To ten years,” Marcus said, raising his glass.

Elena touched hers to it. “And to staying home.”

Outside, cars hissed along the wet street. Inside, the kitchen was a mess, the dinner imperfect, and neither of them wanted the evening any other way.


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

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

She smiled, then wrote beneath it:

**That is exactly what you said before setting off the smoke alarm in 2019.**

When Marcus came downstairs, already dressed for work, he laughed. “I’ve improved.”

“You bought a fire extinguisher,” Elena said. “That’s not the same thing.”

They had agreed to keep the anniversary quiet. No restaurant, no party, no expensive gifts. Their daughter was sleeping at Elena’s sister’s house, and for the first time in months, their small Ohio home would be still.

After work, Marcus stopped at the grocery store for salmon, green beans, and the lemon cake Elena liked. Meanwhile, Elena changed the sheets, found the candles they had used at their wedding reception, and made a playlist of songs from the year they met.

At six, Marcus discovered the salmon was still frozen.

“I have a solution,” Elena said, reaching for her phone.

“No takeout. Give me twenty minutes.”

While he ran cold water over the fish, she trimmed the beans and set the table. They worked shoulder to shoulder, bumping hips in the narrow kitchen. Marcus overcooked the green beans. Elena dropped a candle and splattered wax across the tablecloth. Neither disaster felt important.

They ate beneath the warm kitchen light while rain tapped the windows. After dinner, Elena brought out a shoebox filled with ticket stubs, old photographs, and the receipt from the diner where they had gone on their first date.

“I can’t believe you kept this,” Marcus said.

“You spilled coffee on me. It was memorable.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “Would you do it again?”

“The coffee?”

“All of it.”

Elena looked around at the dishes, the crooked candles, and the man smiling at her.

“Yes,” she said. “But next year, I’m cooking.”

Marcus raised his glass. “That seems fair.”


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found Marcus in the kitchen, staring suspiciously at a bowl of bread dough.

“It’s supposed to rise,” he said.

“It will,” Elena assured him, though the dough looked as tired as they both felt after a long week.

They lived in a narrow brick townhouse outside Baltimore, where traffic hummed beyond the windows and the neighbors’ dog barked at delivery trucks. Years earlier, they had celebrated anniversaries with crowded restaurants and expensive gifts. This time, they wanted quiet.

Elena spent her lunch break ordering groceries and choosing a bottle of wine from the small shop down the street. Marcus finished work early and cleared the dining table, which had gradually disappeared beneath mail, charging cables, and unopened packages. He found their wedding photo in a drawer and placed it beside two candles.

When Elena came home, she carried mushrooms, fresh herbs, and a small chocolate cake.

“I thought we agreed not to overdo it,” Marcus said, taking the bags.

“This is restraint,” she replied. “The bakery had a larger one.”

They cooked together, moving carefully around their cramped kitchen. Elena stirred risotto while Marcus sautéed mushrooms and tried to rescue the bread. When the loaf emerged dense and uneven, Elena tore off a warm piece.

“It’s good,” she said.

“You’re lying on our anniversary.”

“I’m being supportive.”

After dinner, Marcus washed the dishes while Elena made a playlist of songs from the year they met. Then they sat on the back steps beneath a porch light, sharing cake as cool air settled over the yard.

They talked about the apartment they had once rented, the jobs they had left, and the arguments that now seemed both serious and absurd. Before going inside, Elena rested her head on Marcus’s shoulder.

“Ten years,” she said.

Marcus took her hand. “Still rising.”

She laughed, and through the open kitchen window came the ordinary sounds of their life: the dishwasher running, music playing softly, and the clock ticking toward another year.


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

**No reservations. No crowds. Be home by six. —Marcus**

She smiled, then added a line beneath his in blue ink: **Only if you let me handle dessert.**

They had learned, over ten years in their Ohio townhouse, that celebrations did not have to be elaborate. Their fifth anniversary had involved a canceled flight and an airport hotel. Their eighth had ended with both of them sick after an expensive seafood dinner. This year, they wanted quiet.

After work, Marcus stopped at the neighborhood market. He chose salmon, asparagus, and the least bruised lemon he could find. At home, he moved the stack of mail from the dining table, lit two candles, and searched their kitchen drawer for the cloth napkins they rarely used.

Elena arrived carrying a small bakery box and a grocery bag.

“You bought wine,” Marcus said, looking inside the bag.

“You forgot wine,” she corrected.

Together, they cooked. Marcus seasoned the salmon while Elena trimmed the asparagus. When the smoke alarm chirped, she waved a dish towel beneath it while he opened the back door, both laughing hard enough that the dog next door began barking.

After dinner, Elena brought out two slices of chocolate cake. Marcus disappeared upstairs and returned with an old shoebox. Inside were ticket stubs, photographs, and the receipt from the diner where they had spent their first date.

“You kept that?” she asked.

“You kept the napkin you wrote your number on.”

“That was evidence. Your memory was terrible.”

They sat on the living-room rug, sorting through a decade of ordinary proof: a hospital bracelet, a house key, a postcard from Milwaukee. Elena found a photograph of them standing in front of the townhouse on moving day, exhausted and hopeful.

Marcus raised his glass. “To ten years.”

Elena leaned against him. “And to staying home.”

Outside, traffic moved along the wet street. Inside, the candles burned low, the dishes waited in the sink, and neither of them rushed to clean up.


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

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

She smiled, then added beneath it in blue ink:

**Your plans usually involve smoke alarms. I’ll bring dessert.**

They had agreed not to exchange expensive gifts. Their daughter was spending the night with Elena’s sister, and after a month of overtime, school pickups, and a leaking water heater, what they wanted most was a quiet evening in their Ohio home.

Marcus left work early and stopped at the neighborhood grocery store. He chose salmon, asparagus, and the least bruised lemon he could find. At home, he cleared mail from the dining table, found two candles in a kitchen drawer, and began cooking. When the smoke alarm chirped, he opened the back door before it could fully sound.

Elena arrived carrying a white bakery box and a small paper bag. She set down the dessert, kissed Marcus, and handed him the bag.

“I know we said no gifts.”

Inside was a replacement strap for the watch she had given him on their wedding day. The old leather had cracked months ago.

Marcus fastened it around his wrist. “Then I broke the rule too.”

He led her to the living room, where he had connected an old laptop to the television. Their wedding video waited on the screen, paused on an image of Elena laughing as wind lifted her veil.

Dinner was slightly overcooked, but they ate every bite. Elena had brought two slices of the chocolate cake from the bakery where they had ordered their wedding cake. Afterward, she washed dishes while Marcus dried, their shoulders bumping in the narrow kitchen.

They watched the video under a shared blanket, laughing at forgotten hairstyles and relatives dancing badly. When their younger selves exchanged vows, Marcus reached for Elena’s hand.

“Ten years,” he said.

Elena squeezed his fingers. “And the smoke alarm still works.”

Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows. Inside, they stayed exactly where they were.


By six o’clock, rain had blurred the windows of Lena and Marcus’s apartment in Milwaukee. They had planned to walk to the Italian restaurant where they’d had their first date ten years earlier, but the weather made the decision for them.

“We could still go,” Marcus said, holding up an umbrella with a broken spoke.

Lena laughed. “That thing won’t get us to the lobby.”

They decided to stay home and recreate the evening instead. Marcus searched the kitchen for ingredients while Lena called the restaurant and ordered the same tiramisu they had shared a decade ago. When Marcus discovered they were out of pasta, he volunteered to run to the corner market. Lena stopped him at the door and handed him her raincoat, which fit poorly across his shoulders but had a working hood.

While he was gone, she moved the small dining table beside the window and found two candles in the emergency drawer. She also pulled out a shoebox of keepsakes: ticket stubs, birthday cards, and the receipt from their first dinner, faded almost white.

Marcus returned soaked from the knees down, carrying spaghetti, tomatoes, and a bottle of inexpensive red wine. Together, they cooked. He chopped garlic while Lena made the sauce, tasting it every few minutes and adding too much pepper. When the smoke alarm protested a scorched piece of bread, Marcus waved a dish towel beneath it, and Lena opened the windows, letting in the cool smell of rain.

They ate by candlelight, listening to cars hiss along the wet street below. Halfway through dinner, Lena handed Marcus the old receipt.

“You kept this?” he asked.

“You kept the movie tickets from our second date.”

“That was a good movie.”

“It was terrible.”

They argued cheerfully until the tiramisu arrived. Then Marcus raised his glass.

“To ten years since the night you almost didn’t call me back.”

Lena touched her glass to his. “To ten years since you called again anyway.”

Outside, the rain continued. Inside, they divided the dessert evenly, then quietly traded plates when each realized the other had gotten the larger half.


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

**No reservations. No speeches. Home by six. —Marcus**

She smiled and wrote underneath it, **Only if you let me cook.**

Marcus discovered her reply while packing his lunch. He added, **Only if you let me help.**

They lived in a narrow row house outside Baltimore, where weeknights were usually divided between traffic, laundry, and checking on Marcus’s father. Neither wanted a crowded restaurant or an expensive gift. What they wanted, Elena had said, was “one evening that doesn’t get away from us.”

At five-thirty, Marcus stopped at the neighborhood market for salmon and a bunch of slightly battered tulips. Meanwhile, Elena cleared unopened mail from the dining table, lit two candles, and found the blue ceramic plates they had bought on their honeymoon in Maine.

When Marcus arrived, rain shone on his jacket. Elena took the flowers while he inspected the stove.

“You started without me.”

“I chopped one onion,” she said. “The marriage will survive.”

They worked side by side. Marcus seasoned the salmon and kept an eye on the rice. Elena roasted asparagus and made a lemon sauce, tasting it until the sharpness softened. When the smoke alarm chirped, Marcus waved a dish towel beneath it while Elena opened the back door, both of them laughing hard enough to forget the sauce for a moment.

After dinner, Marcus brought out a small cardboard box. Inside were ticket stubs, old photographs, and the key to their first apartment.

Elena added something of her own: a printed itinerary for a weekend in Maine, planned for autumn, when they could afford the time off.

They sat on the living-room floor, sorting through their shared history. Outside, buses sighed at the corner and rain tapped the windows.

At ten, Elena raised her mug of tea.

“To fifteen years.”

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

The candles had burned low, the dishes were still in the sink, and neither of them moved to clean them.


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

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

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

**Only if you do the same. And don’t buy flowers. They’ll scare the cat. —E**

By six, rain had settled over their neighborhood outside Columbus, Ohio. Elena arrived first, carrying groceries under her coat. She had just begun chopping mushrooms when David came through the door with a paper bag and a damp patch on one shoulder.

“You bought flowers,” she said.

“Technically, basil.” He pulled out a potted plant. “Useful, nonthreatening basil.”

Their cat, June, immediately backed away from it.

They had agreed on a quiet evening at home—no expensive restaurant, no party, no speeches from relatives. Money had been tight since David changed jobs, and Elena was tired from a long week at the clinic. Still, neither wanted the date to pass like an ordinary Tuesday.

David set the table while Elena stirred risotto. He found the cloth napkins they had received as a wedding gift, still stiff from years of disuse. Elena lit two candles, then turned off the smoke alarm before David could remind her what had happened on their tenth anniversary.

Over dinner, they opened the small box they kept in the hall closet. Inside were ticket stubs, old photographs, and the receipt from the diner where they had eaten after getting married at the county courthouse.

“I can’t believe we tipped three dollars,” David said.

“We were broke.”

“We’re still broke.”

“More experienced, though.”

Afterward, David washed the dishes while Elena dried them. They moved slowly, bumping elbows in the narrow kitchen. When their old wedding song came on his phone, Elena took the towel from her shoulder and held out her hand.

They danced between the sink and the refrigerator, June watching suspiciously from the doorway. Outside, cars hissed along the wet street. Inside, the risotto cooled on their plates, the basil leaned toward the window, and neither of them hurried the song.


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

**No gifts. No restaurant. Just us. —Marcus**

She smiled, folded it into her pocket, and texted him from across the kitchen table.

**Agreed. But I’m choosing dessert.**

They had planned a quiet evening at their townhouse outside Baltimore. Their daughter was sleeping at Elena’s sister’s house, and Marcus had promised to leave work by five. Elena would make the mushroom risotto they had eaten on their first date; Marcus would find the old playlist they used to play in their cramped first apartment.

At four thirty, Elena discovered the vegetable stock had leaked across the refrigerator shelf. At five fifteen, Marcus called to say traffic on I-95 had stopped completely.

“We can postpone,” he said.

“Absolutely not,” Elena replied, mopping the refrigerator with a dish towel. “Pick up stock when you get off the highway.”

Marcus arrived at six twenty carrying groceries, a bunch of yellow tulips, and the wrong kind of rice.

Elena held up the bag. “Long grain?”

“It said rice.”

“You’ve watched me make risotto for ten years.”

“And I’ve admired it every time.”

They laughed, tired enough not to argue. Marcus changed the plan, chopping onions while Elena found a recipe for mushroom pilaf. She opened the wine; he burned the first batch of mushrooms while searching for their playlist. The smoke alarm chirped until Elena climbed onto a chair and waved a baking sheet beneath it.

By eight, they were eating at the small dining table with the lights dimmed. The pilaf was uneven, the tulips leaned sideways in a water pitcher, and rain tapped against the windows.

Marcus played the song from their first dance. Elena stood and offered him her hand.

“There’s barely room,” he said.

“There wasn’t room in our first apartment either.”

He joined her between the table and the couch. They moved carefully, laughing when Marcus bumped a chair. Outside, cars hissed along the wet street. Inside, Elena rested her head against his shoulder, and together they counted ten years—not perfect, not quiet, but theirs.


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

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

She smiled, folded the note, and slipped it into her pocket. They had agreed on a quiet evening, but Marcus’s secrecy suggested he had interpreted “quiet” creatively.

At lunch, Elena drove across town to the small bakery that had made their wedding cake. The original owner had retired, but his daughter still remembered the recipe: lemon cake with raspberry filling. Elena bought two slices and carried them home like fragile cargo.

Marcus arrived first. He pushed the living room furniture aside, vacuumed the rug, and searched three closets before finding the string lights they used on the patio each summer. When Elena’s car pulled into the driveway, he hurried to light the candles on the dining table.

She entered carrying the bakery box and stopped. Their wedding song played softly from a speaker. On the table sat two bowls of tomato soup and a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches.

“You made our first-date dinner,” she said.

“You ordered tomato soup,” Marcus replied. “I ordered grilled cheese. We shared because neither of us liked our choice.”

Elena laughed. “I liked mine. I just wanted half your sandwich.”

They ate slowly, trading memories and correcting each other’s details. After dinner, Elena brought out the cake. Marcus disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a shoebox filled with old ticket stubs, photographs, and notes they had written during difficult years.

Together, they spread everything across the rug. Elena found a receipt from the hardware store they had visited the day they bought their house. Marcus found the hospital bracelet from their daughter’s birth.

Near midnight, they carried two chairs onto the porch. Traffic murmured beyond the neighborhood, and someone’s dog barked twice.

“We didn’t do much,” Marcus said.

Elena leaned against him. “We remembered a lot.”

He reached for her hand, and they sat quietly beneath the porch light, planning what to save from the next ten years.


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

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

She smiled, then texted him from across the kitchen table.

**We agreed: quiet evening. No surprises involving crowds, costumes, or your brother’s band.**

Marcus’s phone buzzed beside his cereal bowl. He read the message and looked up. “Define crowds.”

“More than two people.”

“Perfect,” he said. “My plan allows exactly two.”

They both worked from their home in Columbus, Ohio, and spent the day trying not to reveal what they were doing. During lunch, Marcus drove to the Italian market for fresh pasta and the lemon cookies Elena loved. While he was gone, Elena pulled a dusty box from the hall closet. Inside were ticket stubs, postcards, and the receipt from the diner where they had gone on their first date.

At five, a thunderstorm rolled in. Marcus’s plan for dinner on the patio disappeared beneath sheets of rain. He stood at the back door, holding a tablecloth and looking defeated.

Elena came up beside him. “We live in Ohio. Outdoor plans are acts of faith.”

Together, they moved the small patio table into the living room. Marcus cooked mushroom ravioli while Elena arranged candles in mismatched jars. When the power flickered, she found the camping lantern; when Marcus burned the first batch of garlic bread, he scraped it into the trash and started again.

After dinner, Elena opened the box of keepsakes. They sat cross-legged on the rug, passing old photographs between them.

“Look at your hair,” Marcus said.

“You had a goatee.”

“We’ve both survived things.”

Near midnight, the rain softened. Marcus brought out the lemon cookies, and Elena played the song from their wedding on her phone. They danced carefully between the couch and the coffee table.

It wasn’t the evening either had pictured. But when Marcus rested his forehead against hers, Elena said, “Still exactly two people.”

“Exactly,” he said.


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

**Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus**

She smiled, then wrote beneath it, **Too late**, and left the note on his laptop.

They had agreed to keep the evening quiet. Their daughter was sleeping at a friend’s house, and neither wanted a crowded restaurant or an expensive gift. Still, each had secretly made preparations.

After work, Marcus stopped at the neighborhood grocery store in Columbus, Ohio, where he bought salmon, asparagus, and the lemon cookies Elena liked. At home, he discovered her bicycle blocking the garage door and called through the kitchen window.

“Can you move your getaway vehicle?”

Elena appeared wearing gardening gloves. She had strung warm white lights across the back porch and arranged two chairs beside a small table. “Only if you hand over the groceries.”

They cooked together, as they had in their first apartment. Marcus seasoned the salmon while Elena chopped vegetables. When the smoke alarm went off, she waved a dish towel beneath it, laughing, while he opened the windows and insisted the fish was “charred on purpose.”

After dinner, Elena brought out a shoebox filled with ticket stubs, old photographs, and handwritten notes. Marcus added an envelope of his own: a printed reservation for the same lakeside cabin where they had spent their honeymoon.

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

“It’s refundable,” he replied. “Very romantic, but practical.”

She handed him a small photo album she had made, leaving several pages blank at the end.

Outside, traffic hummed beyond the fence, and someone’s dog barked down the block. Marcus poured sparkling cider while Elena lit a candle that kept going out in the breeze.

They sat shoulder to shoulder beneath the porch lights, turning the album pages slowly. Their anniversary was not grand or flawless, but it belonged entirely to them—and both of them had made it happen.


By six o’clock, Elena had changed out of her work clothes and was kneading pizza dough on the kitchen counter. Marcus stood beside her, slicing mushrooms with exaggerated care.

“Thin,” Elena reminded him.

“These are thin.”

“Those are coasters.”

He laughed and cut each slice in half.

It was their fifteenth wedding anniversary, and they had agreed on a quiet evening at home in their Ohio townhouse. No crowded restaurant, no expensive gifts. Their daughter was sleeping at a friend’s house, and Marcus had turned off both their phones.

While the dough rose, Elena carried two folding chairs onto the back patio. Marcus followed with a string of white lights they usually saved for Christmas. Together they draped them along the fence, arguing mildly over whether the extension cord would reach.

“It always reaches,” Marcus said.

“It didn’t last year.”

“That was a different cord.”

It did not reach. Elena found another in the garage while Marcus set the patio table with their everyday plates and the cloth napkins his mother had given them.

They built the pizza together: garlic, mushrooms, peppers, and too much mozzarella. While it baked, Marcus opened a bottle of red wine they had bought on a weekend trip to Michigan ten years earlier. They had kept it for a special occasion, though neither knew whether it was still good.

It tasted sharp and slightly stale.

Elena made a face. “Very romantic.”

Marcus poured it down the sink and opened two bottles of root beer instead.

Outside, traffic murmured beyond the fence. A neighbor’s dog barked twice, then settled. They ate under the uneven lights, their knees touching beneath the small table.

Marcus produced an envelope. Inside was not a card but a printed reservation for the same lakeside cabin where they had spent their honeymoon.

Elena studied it, smiling. “You said no gifts.”

“It’s for both of us.”

She went inside and returned with two new hiking maps.

“So is this,” she said.

They raised their root beer bottles, laughing at how predictable they had become—and how glad they were to be predictable together.


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

**No gifts. Home by six. I’ll cook. —Marcus**

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

They had agreed on a quiet evening at home in Columbus, Ohio. Their daughter was sleeping at a friend’s house, and neither wanted to spend the night in a crowded restaurant pretending not to hear the tables beside them. Still, the day resisted their plan.

At five thirty, Marcus discovered the chicken had spoiled. He called Elena while standing in the grocery store, staring at a nearly empty refrigerated case.

“Salmon?” he asked.

“You burned salmon last time.”

“I overcooked it.”

“The smoke alarm disagreed.”

They settled on pasta. Meanwhile, Elena stopped at the bakery that had made their wedding cake, only to learn it had closed early. She bought two cupcakes from a supermarket instead, choosing chocolate for Marcus and lemon for herself.

At home, they worked side by side. Marcus chopped garlic while Elena made a salad and found the good plates in the back of a cabinet. When the sauce tasted flat, she added red pepper. When she spilled dressing on her blouse, Marcus handed her a dish towel without comment.

By seven, rain tapped against the windows. They lit candles, turned off their phones, and ate at the small dining table they usually covered with mail.

Marcus raised his glass. “To fifteen years.”

“To surviving your salmon,” Elena said.

“And your directions.”

She laughed, then reached across the table for his hand. After dinner, Marcus brought out an old photo album he had hidden under the couch. Elena opened it to a picture of them outside the county courthouse, young and squinting in bright sunlight.

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

“We still don’t.”

They ate their mismatched cupcakes on the couch while the rain continued, and for once, neither of them tried to improve the evening.


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

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

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

**You’ll burn something. I’ll bring dessert.**

They lived in a narrow townhouse outside Baltimore, close enough to hear traffic from the interstate but far enough that their small backyard attracted cardinals. Neither wanted a party. The past year had been crowded with Marcus’s night shifts at the hospital, Elena’s deadlines at the architecture firm, and the ordinary maintenance of a shared life—leaking faucets, grocery lists, and calls to aging parents.

At five thirty, Marcus arrived carrying two paper bags. Elena was already home, arranging grocery-store flowers in the chipped pitcher they had bought on their honeymoon in Maine.

“You said you’d cook,” she said, eyeing the bags.

“I am cooking. Ingredients can come preassembled.”

Together they unpacked roasted chicken, potatoes, and green beans. Marcus warmed everything while Elena set the table with their wedding china, which had survived ten years mostly because they rarely used it. When the smoke alarm chirped over an overheated pan, she opened the back door, and he stood beneath the alarm waving a dish towel until they were both laughing.

After dinner, Elena brought out a small chocolate cake. Marcus disappeared upstairs and returned with a shoebox. Inside were ticket stubs, photographs, and notes they had exchanged over the years.

“I thought we could pick one thing to keep on the mantel,” he said.

They sorted through the box together. Elena chose a faded receipt from the diner where they had decided to move in together. Marcus chose a photograph from that same night, Elena grinning across a Formica table.

They compromised by placing both in an old frame.

Later, they carried their cake to the back steps. The air was cool, and traffic hummed beyond the trees. Marcus raised his fork.

“To ten years.”

Elena touched hers to it. “And to staying home.”

Neither evening nor marriage had turned out perfectly. But sitting shoulder to shoulder in the dark, they agreed that quiet was not the same as ordinary.


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

“Don’t make dinner plans,” it said in Marcus’s slanted handwriting. “But please be home by six.”

She smiled, then texted him from the kitchen. “Only if you promise this doesn’t involve a crowded restaurant singing at us.”

From his office downtown, Marcus replied, “Absolutely no public humiliation.”

They had celebrated earlier anniversaries with weekend trips and expensive meals, but this year had been harder. Elena’s mother was recovering from surgery in Arizona, Marcus had changed jobs, and their savings had gone toward replacing the roof of their small Maryland townhouse. A quiet evening sounded less like a compromise and more like relief.

At lunch, Elena slipped out to the neighborhood bakery and bought two slices of lemon cake—the flavor they had served at their wedding. Meanwhile, Marcus stopped at a hardware store for a string of warm patio lights. He spent the last hour of his workday worrying that the evening was too simple.

At home, they nearly collided in the hallway, each trying to hide a paper bag.

“You first,” Elena said.

Marcus led her to the back patio. He had swept the bricks, hung the lights along the fence, and set their chipped blue dishes on the little metal table. A pot of tomato sauce simmered inside.

Elena raised her bakery bag. “I brought dessert.”

“Lemon?”

“Obviously.”

They cooked together, Marcus rolling out fresh pasta while Elena fed strips into the hand-cranked machine they had received as a wedding gift and rarely used. The first batch stuck together. The second tore. By the third, they were laughing too hard to care.

After dinner, Elena brought out an envelope. Inside was a printed photograph of the apartment where they had first lived, taken that morning by a friend who still lived nearby.

Marcus studied it, then reached across the table for her hand.

“I thought ten years would feel more dramatic,” he said.

Elena squeezed his fingers beneath the soft patio lights. “Maybe the quiet part is the achievement.”

They ate lemon cake as traffic murmured beyond the fence, making plans for another decade.


On Friday afternoon, Elena left work early and stopped at the neighborhood grocery store. It was her fifteenth wedding anniversary with Marcus, and they had agreed on one rule: no crowded restaurant, no elaborate gifts, no pressure.

At home in their small Ohio bungalow, Marcus was already moving furniture. He pushed the coffee table aside and spread a faded blue blanket across the living room floor.

“A picnic?” Elena asked, setting down two grocery bags.

“It’s where I proposed,” he said. “Or as close as I could get without driving six hours to Lake Michigan.”

Elena laughed and pulled out bread, cheese, strawberries, and a bottle of sparkling cider. “Good, because I planned the menu for people who are tired by nine.”

They worked together in the kitchen. Marcus sliced apples while Elena warmed tomato soup, the same meal they had eaten on their first date after a sudden rainstorm ruined their outdoor plans. He burned one piece of bread, and she scraped it over the sink while he opened the windows before the smoke alarm could complain.

By seven, rain tapped against the glass. They turned off their phones, lit two candles, and sat cross-legged on the blanket. Marcus produced an old envelope filled with photographs and ticket stubs. Elena had brought a notebook.

“I thought we could each write down one thing we want to do this year,” she said.

Marcus nodded. “Together or separately?”

“Both. We’re still two people.”

They wrote quietly. Elena wanted to take a pottery class. Marcus wanted to coach youth baseball again. Together, they chose a weekend train trip to Chicago.

Later, they danced to the song from their wedding, careful not to step on the dog, who had settled between them. Nothing about the evening was grand. The soup cooled too quickly, the candle wax dripped onto a plate, and the rain never stopped.

Still, when Marcus asked, “Same time next year?” Elena rested her forehead against his.

“Absolutely,” she said. “But next year, you’re making dessert.”


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

“Dinner at home,” it read. “No phones. No errands. I’ll handle dessert.”

She smiled, though she knew Marcus’s definition of “handle dessert” usually involved buying something and transferring it to a nicer plate.

They lived in a narrow townhouse outside Baltimore, close enough to hear traffic from the beltway when the windows were open. Both had taken the day off, but their quiet evening required more planning than expected. Elena went to the farmers’ market for mushrooms and fresh bread while Marcus cleaned the dining room, which had gradually become an office, storage area, and landing place for unopened mail.

By four, rain tapped against the kitchen windows. Elena stood at the stove, stirring risotto, while Marcus sliced pears for a salad. He worked slowly, carefully avoiding the thumb he had cut during their third anniversary dinner.

“You still don’t trust me with knives,” he said.

“I trust you to be exactly who you are.”

He laughed and bumped her shoulder with his.

When the power flickered, they both froze. The oven clock went dark, then returned, blinking. Marcus checked the candles and found only two short ones left from a winter storm. Elena set them on the table anyway.

At seven, they changed out of their cooking clothes. Marcus wore the blue shirt Elena had given him years ago; Elena put on the earrings he had bought during their first trip to Chicago.

They ate by candlelight, not because the power failed, but because it felt right. After dinner, Marcus brought out a lopsided chocolate cake he had baked himself.

Elena took one bite and raised an eyebrow.

“Too much salt?” he asked.

“A little.”

They ate it anyway.

Later, they washed dishes together, passing plates between them in the small kitchen. Their celebration had no restaurant, gifts, or grand speeches. But before turning off the lights, Elena reached for his hand.

“Ten years,” she said.

Marcus squeezed her fingers. “Let’s keep going.”


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

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

She smiled, then looked toward the hallway, where Marcus was struggling to knot his tie while searching for his keys.

“You know I work from home,” she said. “I’m going to see whatever you’re planning.”

“That sounds like a challenge.” He kissed her cheek, grabbed the keys from beside the coffee maker, and hurried out to catch the train into Chicago.

By noon, two grocery bags arrived. Lena carried them inside and discovered pasta, tomatoes, basil, and a small chocolate cake. She texted Marcus a picture.

**Very mysterious.**

His reply came quickly: **Please pretend you saw nothing.**

Lena decided to contribute without interfering. During her lunch break, she printed photographs from their first years together: a rainy courthouse wedding, their tiny apartment in Milwaukee, the cross-country drive when they moved for Marcus’s job. She arranged them along the mantel and found the chipped blue candleholders they had bought on their honeymoon.

Marcus came home at six, damp from an early spring drizzle. He loosened his tie and surveyed the photographs.

“You improved my plan,” he said.

“You had groceries. I had memories.”

They cooked together, as they usually did on Sundays. Marcus chopped onions while Lena rolled fresh pasta through the hand-cranked machine her mother had given them. When the sauce nearly burned, Lena rescued it with a splash of water. When a strand of pasta stuck to Marcus’s sleeve, he wore it like a bracelet until she laughed.

They ate at their small dining table with the lights dimmed and the blue candles burning unevenly. Outside, buses sighed at the corner and rain tapped the windows.

Marcus raised his glass. “Ten years. Same team?”

Lena reached across the table and took his hand. “Same team. Better kitchen.”

After cake, they washed the dishes together, then slow-danced in their socks to the song from their wedding. Nothing about the evening was extravagant, but neither of them wanted it to be.


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

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

She smiled, then looked toward the bedroom, where Marcus was searching through the closet.

“Covered how?” she called.

“That information is classified.”

They lived in a narrow townhouse outside Baltimore, close enough to hear traffic but far enough from downtown that evenings were usually quiet. Both had taken the day off, though neither was good at relaxing. By noon, Marcus was carrying groceries inside while Lena swept the back patio and untangled the string lights they had bought years ago and never used.

“I thought you had it covered,” she said.

“I do. But you’re better with knots.”

“And you’re better at pretending this was all planned.”

They worked side by side. Marcus marinated chicken using a recipe from the restaurant where they had gone on their first date. Lena set a small table outside, then found their wedding album on the living room shelf. Its cover was dusty, and several photographs had begun slipping from their plastic sleeves.

Just before sunset, a summer storm rolled in. Rain struck the patio hard, soaking the tablecloth before they could pull it inside. Marcus rescued the food while Lena gathered the photographs and lights.

For a moment, they stood in the kitchen, dripping and disappointed.

“Living room picnic?” Lena suggested.

Marcus looked at the wet tablecloth in his hands. “Only if we use the good plates.”

They spread a blanket on the floor and lit two candles. Lena arranged the photographs between them while Marcus served dinner. They laughed at his old haircut, remembered relatives who were gone, and argued gently about who had cried first during the ceremony.

Later, Lena brought out a small box. Inside was a new silver watch to replace the one Marcus had lost years ago.

Marcus fastened it, then handed her an envelope containing two train tickets to New York, where they had spent their honeymoon.

“Next month,” he said. “Tonight, we stay home.”

Rain tapped the windows. Lena leaned against him, and together they turned another page.


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

Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus

She smiled, then wrote beneath it:

Fine. But don’t buy flowers. The cat eats them. —E.

They lived in a narrow brick townhouse outside Baltimore, where weekday evenings usually disappeared into commutes, laundry, and deciding whose turn it was to call Marcus’s mother. Neither wanted a restaurant or a party. They had agreed weeks ago that quiet sounded better.

Still, both had plans.

After work, Elena stopped at the neighborhood market for fresh pasta, mushrooms, and the lemon cookies Marcus loved. At home, she found him dragging two dining chairs onto the small back porch.

“You said no plans,” she called through the screen door.

“I said you shouldn’t make dinner plans.”

Marcus had strung warm white lights along the railing. On the little patio table sat two candles and the blue ceramic bowl they had bought on their honeymoon in Santa Fe. He had filled it with ice and tucked in a bottle of sparkling cider, since Elena had an early shift the next morning.

She held up the grocery bag. “I bought ingredients.”

“Good,” he said. “I bought atmosphere.”

They cooked together in the cramped kitchen. Elena sliced mushrooms while Marcus stirred the sauce. When he added too much pepper, she rescued it with cream. When she nearly burned the garlic bread, he pulled it from the oven.

Outside, traffic murmured beyond the alley. A neighbor’s dog barked twice, then settled. They ate under the lights, trading memories: the apartment with the broken radiator, the cross-country move, the year they almost gave up.

Marcus reached across the table. “We’re better at this now.”

“At marriage?”

“At not leaving the garlic bread unattended.”

Elena laughed and squeezed his hand.

Later, they washed the dishes side by side, bumping hips at the sink. Nothing about the evening was grand, but when Marcus put on their old wedding song and Elena drew him into the living room, the house felt full enough.


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

**No gifts. No restaurant. Be home by six. —Marcus**

She smiled, then added beneath his handwriting:

**Agreed. But I’m cooking. You burned the risotto last year.**

Marcus discovered her reply while pouring coffee and laughed loudly enough for Elena to hear from the bedroom.

They lived in a narrow brick townhouse outside Baltimore, on a street where children rode scooters between parked cars and neighbors argued cheerfully over lawn care. Both had taken the afternoon off. Their plan was simple: dinner, music, and the old photo album they had not opened in years.

At four, Elena stopped at the neighborhood market for mushrooms, bread, and a bottle of inexpensive wine from the same California vineyard they had served at their wedding. Meanwhile, Marcus cleaned the kitchen, changed the bulb in the dining-room lamp, and searched three closets before finding the blue tablecloth his mother had given them.

A thunderstorm arrived just before six. The lights flickered while Elena stirred risotto and Marcus sliced bread.

“If the power goes out, we’re eating cereal,” he said.

“No,” Elena replied, handing him a spoon. “You’re going to keep stirring while I find candles.”

They worked around each other with the ease of long practice. Marcus rescued the mushrooms before they scorched; Elena found the candles and set them in mismatched jars. When the electricity finally failed, the risotto was finished.

They ate by candlelight as rain tapped against the windows. Afterward, Marcus brought out the album. Elena turned the pages, pausing at photographs of their first apartment, their courthouse ceremony, and a camping trip ruined by mosquitoes.

“We looked exhausted,” Marcus said.

“We were exhausted.”

He reached across the table. “Still glad we did it?”

Elena squeezed his hand. “All of it.”

Outside, the storm moved east. Inside, they opened the wine and began choosing a photograph to frame for the next ten years.


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

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

She smiled, then called toward the hallway, “Your plans usually require me to find the fire extinguisher.”

Marcus appeared, knotting his tie. “That happened once.”

“Twice.”

They had considered going to the Italian restaurant where he had proposed, but it was an hour across Chicago in evening traffic. Besides, after two decades of birthdays, school concerts, job changes, and one difficult year caring for Marcus’s mother, neither of them wanted a grand production. They wanted quiet.

At lunch, Elena slipped out of her office and bought a small lemon cake from the bakery near their first apartment. On her way home, she stopped at a print shop to pick up copies of old photographs she had secretly scanned: Marcus asleep beside their newborn daughter, Elena holding the keys to their house, both of them soaked during a camping trip.

Meanwhile, Marcus left work early. He bought tulips and ingredients for mushroom risotto, then hurried home to clean the kitchen. By the time Elena arrived, jazz was playing, the table was set, and Marcus was frowning at a pan.

“The rice is fighting me,” he said.

Elena set down the cake. “Move over.”

They cooked together, Marcus stirring while Elena added broth. When the risotto was finally edible, they carried their plates to the back porch. A light rain tapped the awning, and traffic murmured beyond the fence.

After dinner, Elena gave him the photographs. Marcus studied each one slowly.

“I forgot how tired we looked,” he said.

“We were tired.”

“We still are.”

She laughed. He reached across the table and took her hand.

Marcus gave her a small envelope containing two train tickets for a weekend in Wisconsin, scheduled for the following month when their calendars were clear.

“No surprises tonight,” he said. “Just something to look forward to.”

They ate lemon cake under the porch light, talking about the years behind them and the ordinary days ahead.


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

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

She smiled, then wrote underneath it:

**Only if you do the same. And don’t buy flowers. They’re too expensive this week.**

Marcus discovered her reply an hour later. He laughed, folded the note into his wallet, and left for the bus.

They lived in a second-floor apartment outside Columbus, Ohio, where the kitchen window faced a parking lot and the radiator clanked whenever the temperature dropped. Their anniversary fell on a rainy Thursday, and neither wanted a restaurant, reservations, or a crowd. Ten years earlier, after their courthouse ceremony, they had eaten grilled cheese and tomato soup on the floor of their first apartment because their furniture had not arrived.

Elena stopped at the grocery store after her shift at the dental office. She bought sourdough bread, sharp cheddar, and two cans of tomato soup. Remembering Marcus’s weakness, she added a small chocolate cake.

Meanwhile, Marcus left the warehouse early, picked up their dry cleaning, and hurried home. He cleared the dining table, found two candles in the junk drawer, and queued the playlist they had made when they were dating. When Elena arrived, soaked at the shoulders, he took the grocery bag while she rescued the candles from his crooked arrangement.

“You cook,” she said. “I’ll make this place look less like laundry day.”

They worked side by side. Marcus buttered the bread and watched the skillet carefully; Elena warmed the soup, set out their mismatched bowls, and draped a clean sheet over the table when she couldn’t find the tablecloth.

During dinner, they traded memories: the broken-down car in Tennessee, the year Marcus lost his job, the night Elena’s mother moved in after surgery. They also talked about next year—saving for a house, maybe taking a real vacation.

When the cake was gone, Marcus held out his hand. Elena turned up the music.

They danced between the table and the stove, stepping around the radiator’s hiss, while rain tapped softly against the window.


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

“No gifts,” it read in Marcus’s slanted handwriting. “Home by six. Wear the blue sweater.”

She smiled. They had agreed on a quiet evening, but Marcus had never been good at leaving plans entirely unadorned.

They lived in a narrow brick townhouse outside Baltimore, close enough to hear the commuter train and far enough from downtown that their street went still after dark. Elena worked from home that Friday, finishing reports between small preparations. She bought fresh bread from the corner bakery, chilled a bottle of sparkling cider, and dug out the ceramic plates they had purchased on their honeymoon in New Mexico.

Marcus left the hospital early, stopping at the grocery store for mushrooms and cream. He planned to recreate the pasta they had eaten on their first date, though he remembered only that it had contained garlic and cost more than either of them could afford.

At six, he found Elena in the kitchen wearing the blue sweater and slicing pears.

“You said no gifts,” she said, eyeing the grocery bag.

“Ingredients aren’t gifts.”

“Then neither is dessert.”

She opened the refrigerator to reveal a small chocolate cake.

They cooked together, bumping elbows at the stove. Marcus burned the first batch of mushrooms; Elena oversalted the sauce while trying to fix it. They laughed, opened the windows, and ordered pizza as backup. While they waited, they carried their plates to the living room and spread old photographs across the coffee table.

There they were at twenty-eight, soaked by rain outside the courthouse. There was their first apartment, with its crooked blinds. There were holidays, hospital bracelets, road trips, and one terrible haircut Marcus insisted had been fashionable.

When the pizza arrived, Elena lit two candles. Marcus turned off the overhead lamp and put on the song they had danced to at their wedding.

They swayed between the couch and the coffee table, careful not to step on the photographs.

“Quiet enough?” he asked.

Elena rested her head against his shoulder. Outside, the train passed, rattling the windows.

“Perfect,” she said.


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

**Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus**

She smiled, then wrote beneath it, **Too late**, and left for work.

By six, rain had begun tapping against the windows of their Michigan home. Marcus arrived carrying grocery bags and a bunch of grocery-store tulips. Elena was already in the kitchen, rolling dough across the counter.

“I thought I was cooking,” he said.

“And I thought I was cooking.”

They had both planned the same quiet evening: homemade dinner, no phones, and the old jazz record they had played at their wedding reception. Marcus unpacked salmon, asparagus, and a lemon tart. Elena pointed to her own ingredients—mushrooms, fresh pasta, and a bottle of red wine.

They compromised. He seasoned the salmon while she cut the pasta into uneven ribbons. When the smoke alarm shrieked, Elena opened the windows and Marcus waved a dish towel beneath it, laughing so hard he had to lean against the refrigerator.

“Very romantic,” she said.

“Exactly as imagined.”

They ate at the small dining table they had bought during their first year of marriage. It still wobbled unless someone folded a napkin beneath one leg. Marcus fixed it while Elena lit two candles.

After dinner, she brought out a shoebox filled with photographs, ticket stubs, and notes they had exchanged over the years. Marcus added something new: two train tickets to Chicago for the following month.

Elena raised an eyebrow. “I thought we agreed on quiet.”

“Tonight is quiet. Next month can be loud.”

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. Then she placed her own gift beside the tickets: a framed photograph of the first apartment they had shared, its brick walls faded by winter light.

The record crackled in the living room. They left the dishes in the sink and danced in their socks, careful of the loose floorboard, while rain softened against the roof.


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

**Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus**

She smiled, then wrote beneath it, **Too late**, and left for work.

They had agreed to keep the evening quiet. The past year had been expensive: a leaking roof, a transmission repair, and their daughter’s first semester at a state university. No restaurant, no gifts. Just dinner at their house in Ohio and, if the rain held off, a walk around the neighborhood.

Marcus came home early and began chopping onions for the pasta sauce they had eaten on their first date. He remembered it as charmingly simple. Elena remembered that he had burned the garlic.

At six, she entered carrying a paper grocery bag.

“You said no plans,” Marcus said, pointing his wooden spoon at her.

“I said too late.” She pulled out a small chocolate cake and a bottle of sparkling cider. “Also, you’re about to burn the garlic.”

He turned down the heat. “Tradition.”

While the sauce simmered, Elena set the table with their everyday plates. Marcus found two candles in the junk drawer, both slightly bent, and wedged them into mismatched holders. Together they moved a stack of unopened mail off the table and silenced their phones.

Dinner was better than the first date, though Marcus insisted the original had been excellent. Afterward, Elena brought out an old shoebox filled with ticket stubs, photographs, and notes they had saved. Marcus added the morning’s coffee-maker message.

“That hardly qualifies,” she said.

“It got a response.”

Rain tapped steadily against the windows, canceling their walk. Instead, Elena put on the song from their wedding reception. Marcus cleared a space between the table and the refrigerator.

They danced in socks beneath the bright kitchen light, laughing when he stepped on her foot. The roof no longer leaked. The car was running. Their daughter had texted a row of hearts.

Nothing about the evening was elegant, but when the song ended, neither of them let go.


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

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

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

They lived in a narrow townhouse outside Baltimore, where traffic hummed beyond the maple trees and their next-door neighbor’s terrier barked at delivery trucks. Most anniversaries had involved reservations, babysitters for nieces they’d agreed to watch, or long drives to crowded hotels. This year, they wanted quiet.

At five-thirty, Elena arrived carrying a paper bag from the Italian market. Marcus was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, attempting to repair a sauce that had turned watery.

“You started without me,” she said.

“You’re the one who took twenty minutes to choose olives.”

“They’re important olives.”

She tasted the sauce, added tomato paste, and handed him the wooden spoon. While he stirred, she sliced bread and arranged the olives beside a small wedge of cheese. They moved around each other easily, opening drawers before the other asked, stepping aside at the right moment.

After dinner, Marcus cleared the plates while Elena brought out a shoebox from the hall closet. Inside were ticket stubs, old photographs, and the receipt from the diner where they had first decided to marry.

“You kept the receipt?” he asked.

“You kept the napkin.”

He unfolded it carefully. In faded blue ink, Marcus had once written a list titled *Things We Want*: a home, meaningful work, a dog, and enough money to stop worrying.

They had the townhouse and jobs they mostly liked. The dog had become two elderly cats. Money still required attention.

Marcus found a blank index card and wrote, *Things We Want Next.*

Elena considered, then added, *More evenings like this.*

They carried two glasses of wine onto the back steps. The air was cool, and somewhere down the block, someone was practicing trumpet. Marcus took Elena’s hand.

“No reservations,” he said.

“No traffic,” she replied.

Together, they listened as the imperfect music drifted through the neighborhood.


On the evening of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena and Marcus agreed they wanted no reservations, no crowded restaurant, and no well-meaning waiter asking how long they had been married.

They lived in a narrow brick townhouse outside Baltimore, where the kitchen was small and the smoke detector was overly sensitive. Marcus stopped at the grocery store after work and bought salmon, asparagus, and the expensive chocolate cake Elena always paused to admire. Elena came home early, changed out of her scrubs, and searched the hall closet for the white tablecloth they had used at their wedding reception.

“It has a stain,” she called.

“Turn that part toward the wall,” Marcus said, setting down the bags.

They worked side by side. Elena trimmed the asparagus while Marcus seasoned the salmon. When the smoke detector shrieked, she climbed onto a chair to silence it while he opened the back door and waved a dish towel beneath the ceiling.

“Very elegant,” she said.

“Exactly as planned.”

After dinner, Elena brought out a shoebox filled with old photographs, ticket stubs, and folded notes. Marcus found the receipt from the roadside motel where they had stayed during their first road trip, after his car broke down in Pennsylvania. Elena uncovered a movie ticket from their second date.

“You hated that movie,” he said.

“I liked sitting next to you.”

Marcus cleared the plates while Elena lit two candles and carried the cake into the living room. They ate it on the couch, listening to the rain tap against the windows. Then Marcus handed her a small envelope. Inside was a printed confirmation for a weekend in the same Pennsylvania town where the car had failed years ago.

Elena laughed, then reached behind a cushion and produced her own gift: a new emergency roadside kit.

For a moment they simply looked at each other, amused by how well their gifts fit together.

“To ten years,” Marcus said.

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


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

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

She smiled, then added beneath it, **I’ll choose the music. And I’m helping.**

They lived in a narrow townhouse outside Baltimore, close enough to hear traffic from the interstate when the windows were open. By six, rain had begun tapping against the kitchen skylight. Marcus arrived carrying groceries in two paper bags, his tie loosened and his glasses spotted with water.

“You bought too much,” Elena said, unpacking mushrooms, cream, and a small chocolate cake.

“You say that every time.”

“And every time we eat leftovers for four days.”

While Marcus started risotto, Elena set the table with the blue plates they had received as wedding gifts. One was chipped, but she turned the damaged edge toward the wall. She found two candles in a drawer, then searched the living room for the old speaker that only worked when its charging cord was bent at an angle.

Marcus stirred the rice while Elena sliced mushrooms. They moved around each other carefully in the small kitchen, passing the olive oil and tasting the broth. When the risotto thickened too quickly, Elena lowered the heat. When she nearly burned the mushrooms, Marcus pulled the pan aside.

“Teamwork,” he said.

“Survival,” she corrected.

After dinner, they carried their wine to the couch. Elena played the song from their first dance, and Marcus groaned at the dramatic strings.

“You picked it,” she reminded him.

“I was nervous.”

They looked through a photo album Elena had quietly retrieved from the hall closet: their courthouse ceremony, their first apartment, road trips, holidays, ordinary Sundays. Marcus paused at a picture of them painting the townhouse walls.

“We looked exhausted,” he said.

“We were exhausted.”

The rain continued, soft and steady. Marcus took her hand.

“Ten years,” he said.

Elena leaned against him. “Let’s keep going.”

They let the next song play without talking.


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

**No restaurant tonight. Too loud. Meet me on the porch at seven. —M**

She smiled, then called toward the hallway, “You know I can hear you pretending not to listen.”

Marcus appeared, half-dressed for work, holding one shoe. “I have no idea what you mean.”

They lived in a narrow brick house outside Baltimore, where the porch faced a row of maples and a bus stop. Their anniversaries had once involved reservations, new clothes, and complicated plans. This year, after months of overtime and helping Marcus’s mother recover from surgery, quiet felt luxurious.

During her lunch break, Elena visited the neighborhood bakery and bought two slices of lemon cake—the same flavor they had served at their wedding. Marcus left work early and stopped at the small grocery store near the train station. He chose a bottle of sparkling cider, remembering that Elena had an early meeting the next morning, and bought a bunch of daisies because roses had never been her favorite.

At home, they nearly collided in the kitchen.

“You weren’t supposed to be here yet,” Marcus said, hiding the flowers behind his back.

“Neither were you.” Elena held the bakery box against her chest.

They laughed, then divided the work. Elena warmed leftover chicken and roasted vegetables while Marcus swept the porch, found the old string lights in the basement, and untangled them with patient determination. When one section refused to glow, Elena replaced the fuse while he held his phone flashlight over her shoulder.

At seven, they carried their plates outside. Traffic murmured at the end of the block. A neighbor’s dog barked once and settled down.

Marcus poured the cider. “Ten years,” he said.

“Fourteen since our first date,” Elena corrected.

He raised his glass. “That’s the important anniversary, then.”

They ate cake from mismatched plates and talked about the apartment where they had started, the jobs they had lost, the house they had bought, and the ordinary mornings they had built together.

When the air turned cool, Elena took Marcus’s hand.

“Same plan next year?” she asked.

He squeezed her fingers. “I’ll bring the daisies.”


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

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

She smiled, folded the note into her pocket, and poured coffee into two travel mugs. Marcus was in the hallway, struggling with his tie while searching for his keys.

“Left them by the mail,” she said.

“And your lunch is in the fridge,” he replied. “We make a decent team.”

They had planned a quiet evening at their townhouse outside Baltimore. After years of crowded restaurants, delayed babysitters, and one anniversary spent in an urgent care waiting room, quiet felt luxurious.

Elena left work early and stopped at the neighborhood market. She bought salmon, asparagus, and the lemon cake Marcus always claimed was too sweet before eating two slices. Meanwhile, Marcus picked up their daughter from soccer practice and drove her to his sister’s house for the night. On the way home, he bought a small bunch of yellow tulips—the same flowers Elena had carried at their courthouse wedding.

At six fifteen, rain began tapping against the kitchen windows. Marcus lit two candles while Elena seasoned the salmon. He chopped garlic, she trimmed asparagus, and they moved around each other in the narrow kitchen with the ease of long practice.

Then the oven stopped heating.

Marcus stared at the dark display. “That feels personal.”

Elena laughed and pulled out a skillet. “Ten years, and you still underestimate me.”

They cooked everything on the stove, setting off the smoke alarm once. Marcus opened the back door and waved a dish towel beneath the alarm while Elena rescued the asparagus.

Later, they ate at the small dining table, with rain falling steadily outside. Marcus gave Elena the tulips. She gave him a printed photograph from their first apartment: the two of them sitting on the floor, eating takeout among unopened boxes.

“We looked exhausted,” he said.

“We were,” she replied. “We usually are.”

He reached across the table, and she took his hand.

The meal was imperfect, the cake was too sweet, and the candles leaned in their holders. Neither of them wanted the evening any other way.


On Friday afternoon, Elena left work early and stopped at the neighborhood market for rosemary, potatoes, and the smallest chocolate cake she could find. It was her and Marcus’s tenth wedding anniversary, and they had agreed on a quiet evening at home. After a decade of shared apartments, job changes, medical bills, and one memorable cross-country move, neither of them wanted a crowded restaurant.

When Elena pulled into the driveway of their Ohio bungalow, Marcus was already on the porch, wrestling a string of warm white lights around the railing.

“You said no decorations,” she called.

“I said no expensive decorations,” he replied, stepping down to take the grocery bag from her.

Inside, they worked side by side. Marcus seasoned two steaks while Elena chopped potatoes. When the smoke alarm shrieked, she opened the windows and waved a dish towel beneath it as Marcus rescued the skillet.

“Very elegant,” she said.

“Exactly like our first apartment,” he answered.

That made them both laugh. Their first anniversary dinner had ended with burned chicken and a landlord pounding on the ceiling.

While the food finished cooking, Elena set the small dining table with their everyday plates and the cloth napkins they rarely used. Marcus found an old playlist on his phone, the one they had made for their wedding reception. He cleared a space between the couch and coffee table.

“We’re not dancing yet,” Elena said, though she was smiling.

After dinner, they carried the cake onto the porch. The October air was cool, and cars passed softly at the end of the street. Marcus poured two glasses of sparkling cider. Elena lit a single candle and placed it in the center of the cake.

They traded gifts: she gave him a framed photograph from their first road trip; he gave her a handwritten list of ten ordinary days he never wanted to forget.

Elena read the list twice. Then she took his hand and led him inside, where their wedding song had begun to play.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found Marcus in the kitchen, studying a grocery list as though it were a legal document.

“You forgot the mushrooms,” she said.

“I was testing you.”

“You failed.”

They had agreed on a quiet evening at home in their Ohio townhouse. Money was tight after replacing the furnace, and neither wanted a crowded restaurant. Instead, they planned to recreate the dinner they had eaten on their first date: mushroom risotto, a green salad, and the cheapest sparkling wine they could find.

After work, they met at the supermarket. Marcus chose the wine while Elena inspected mushrooms. They debated Parmesan prices, laughed over a display of heart-shaped cakes, and left with two paper bags and a small bunch of yellow tulips Marcus slipped into the cart when Elena wasn’t looking.

At home, they divided the work. Elena warmed broth and chopped shallots. Marcus washed lettuce, set the table, and found the old playlist they had listened to in his apartment ten years earlier. When the first song began, Elena stopped stirring.

“You still have this?”

“I keep important things,” he said.

The risotto nearly burned when Marcus pulled her into a brief dance. Elena rescued it, adding broth while he opened the wine too quickly. The cork struck the ceiling, and foam spilled across the counter. For a moment they stared at the mess. Then they laughed until Elena had to lean against the refrigerator.

They ate by candlelight, though one candle kept sputtering. After dinner, Elena brought out a shoebox of ticket stubs, photographs, and notes they had saved. Marcus added a new envelope containing two train tickets for a weekend trip they could take in spring.

Elena placed the anniversary card she had written beside it. “For the next ten years,” she said.

Marcus raised his glass. Outside, traffic hissed on wet pavement. Inside, the dishwasher hummed, the tulips leaned toward the candlelight, and their ordinary home felt exactly like the place they had spent a decade building.


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

**Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus**

She smiled, then wrote underneath it, **Too late**, and left for work.

They lived in a narrow brick townhouse outside Baltimore, where traffic hummed beyond the maple trees and the kitchen floor sloped toward the back door. Big celebrations had never suited them. Their wedding reception had been held in Elena’s aunt’s backyard, with folding chairs and grocery-store flowers. Still, fifteen years felt worth marking.

Marcus came home early carrying a paper bag from the Italian market. He had planned to cook the mushroom risotto they used to order when they were newlyweds and could barely afford to split an entrée. But Elena’s car was already in the driveway.

Inside, she stood on a chair, stringing warm white lights across the dining room window.

“You said not to make plans,” she reminded him.

“I meant outside plans.”

“I assumed you meant bad plans.”

He laughed and unpacked the groceries while she set the table with their mismatched wedding china. They worked around each other in the small kitchen: Marcus stirring broth into rice, Elena slicing pears for a salad. When the smoke alarm chirped, she waved a dish towel beneath it while he rescued the garlic bread.

Rain began after sunset, tapping softly against the windows. They ate by the string lights, with an old playlist playing from Marcus’s phone. Halfway through dinner, Elena brought out a shoebox filled with ticket stubs, photographs, and receipts from trips they had taken.

Marcus added one more item: a printed reservation for a cabin in West Virginia the following spring.

Elena studied it. “This isn’t exactly a quiet evening.”

“It’s six months away,” he said. “Tonight is still quiet.”

She reached across the table and took his hand. Outside, cars hissed along the wet street. Inside, the risotto had gone lukewarm, the bread was slightly burned, and neither of them hurried to clean up.


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

**Don’t make dinner plans. —Marcus**

She smiled, then wrote beneath it:

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

They had agreed weeks ago that the evening would be quiet. No restaurant, no party, no expensive gifts. Their daughter was sleeping at a friend’s house, and for once their small Ohio home would belong only to them.

After work, Marcus stopped at the neighborhood market. He chose salmon, asparagus, and a bottle of the California wine they had served at their wedding. The wine cost more now, and he stood in the aisle debating it until he remembered Elena laughing during their first dance, after he stepped on her dress.

Meanwhile, Elena left the office early and drove across town to the bakery where they had bought their wedding cake. The bakery had changed owners, but the new owner agreed to make two slices of lemon cake with raspberry filling. At home, Elena set the table, then searched through a closet until she found their wedding album.

Marcus arrived carrying groceries and a bunch of crooked tulips. “They looked more honest than the roses,” he said.

“They look exhausted,” Elena replied, taking them from him. “Perfect for us.”

They cooked together. Marcus handled the salmon while Elena trimmed asparagus and corrected his seasoning. When the smoke alarm chirped, he waved a dish towel beneath it, and she opened the windows to the cool April air.

After dinner, Elena brought out the cake. Marcus poured the wine. They sat on the living-room floor with the album between them, turning pages slowly.

“We looked terrified,” Marcus said.

“We were terrified.”

He reached for her hand. “Still glad?”

Elena squeezed his fingers. “Ask me in another ten years.”

Later, they washed the dishes side by side, bumping shoulders at the sink. Nothing about the evening was grand, but when Marcus put on their wedding song and Elena pulled him into the narrow space between the counter and table, neither of them wished they were anywhere else.


On the morning of their tenth wedding anniversary, Elena found Marcus standing barefoot in the kitchen, comparing two recipes on his phone.

“You said quiet,” she reminded him.

“This is quiet,” he said. “I’m quietly panicking over risotto.”

They lived in a narrow brick townhouse outside Baltimore, close enough to hear traffic from the interstate but far enough that their small backyard filled with fireflies in summer. Their anniversary fell on a Wednesday, between Elena’s late shift at the library and Marcus’s early meeting at the architecture firm. A restaurant reservation felt like too much. They wanted dinner at home, no gifts, no speeches.

Still, they both made plans.

During her lunch break, Elena walked to a neighborhood bakery and bought two slices of lemon cake, the kind they had served at their wedding. Marcus left work early and stopped at the grocery store for mushrooms, Parmesan, and a bottle of inexpensive wine from the same California vineyard they had visited on their honeymoon.

At six, Elena arrived to find the smoke alarm chirping and Marcus waving a dish towel beneath it.

“The mushrooms are expressive,” he said.

She opened the windows while he lowered the burner. Then she changed out of her work clothes and joined him at the stove. Marcus stirred the rice; Elena warmed bread and arranged the cake on mismatched plates. When the risotto turned too thick, she added broth. When she nearly dropped the wine opener, he caught the bottle.

They carried dinner to the back porch just as a light rain began. Instead of retreating inside, Marcus pulled the table under the awning, and Elena fetched the old quilt from the hall closet.

They ate with their shoulders touching, watching rain darken the fence.

“Ten years,” Marcus said.

Elena raised her glass. “And we still make a decent team.”

The risotto was slightly undercooked. The cake leaned sideways. Neither mentioned it. After dinner, they played the song from their first dance on Marcus’s phone and swayed beneath the porch light, careful not to step on each other’s feet.


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

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

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

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

His reply came before she reached the train platform.

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

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

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

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

“I’ll allow it.”

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

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

Marcus raised his glass. “To ten years.”

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

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

“Dance with me.”

Marcus turned off the faucet and took her hand.


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

“You went into the closet,” she said.

“I risked my life.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We kept everything,” he said.

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

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

“To fifteen years,” he said.

“And to not going downtown,” she added.


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

“Don’t look in the bag,” she warned.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were absolutely going to.”

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

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

“Very romantic,” she said.

“Authentic,” Daniel replied.

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

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

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

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

“Ten years,” he said.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re useful after all.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

“Elegant,” he said.

“Practical,” she corrected.

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

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

“You kept those?” Maya asked.

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

“I was wrong.”

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

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

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


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

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

She smiled, then added beneath Marcus’s handwriting:

**You’ll burn something. I’ll help.**

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

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

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

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

“We looked exhausted,” he said.

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

“We’re still tired.”

“But less broke.”

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

“The one you burned?”

“The improved version.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You kept that?” Elena asked.

“You said the pancakes were historic.”

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

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

Elena raised her fork. “To ten years.”

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Elena inspected it. “Acceptable.”

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

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

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

“I’m saving the building.”

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

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

“We’re getting predictable,” he said.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The salmon is stuck,” he announced.

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

“You said that about the balloon.”

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

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

When the song ended, neither spoke for a moment.

“Ten years,” Marcus said.

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

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


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

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

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

“You remembered the rules,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He still denies it.”

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

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

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

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

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