On the seventh anniversary of their first date, Maya left work early and stopped at the neighborhood market. She and Ben had agreed on a quiet celebration at their apartment in Minneapolis: no reservations, no gifts, just dinner and the old movie they had watched the night they became a couple.

At home, Ben was already clearing mail from the kitchen table. He had changed out of his office clothes and was kneading pizza dough with more confidence than skill.

“You bought basil?” he asked.

Maya lifted a paper bag. “And the good mozzarella. Did you remember the wine?”

Ben pointed to the refrigerator. “Chilling. I even found the bottle opener.”

They worked side by side. Maya sliced mushrooms and tomatoes while Ben stretched the dough, accidentally tearing a hole in the center. She patched it with a scrap and told him nobody would know. He argued that the misshapen crust gave the pizza character.

While it baked, they carried blankets to the living room and pushed the coffee table aside. Maya found the movie online, but Ben disappeared into the bedroom and returned with an envelope.

“We said no gifts,” she reminded him.

“It’s not a gift.”

Inside was a printed photograph from their first summer together. They were standing beside Lake Michigan, sunburned and laughing, both looking younger and uncertain.

Maya studied it, then went to her desk. She came back with a folded sheet of paper: a list of places they had talked about visiting but never had.

“I thought we could choose one,” she said. “Nothing extravagant. Maybe a weekend.”

Ben read the list and circled Milwaukee. “Train ride, museums, no airport.”

“Practical and romantic,” Maya said.

The smoke alarm interrupted them. They rushed to the kitchen, where the pizza’s edges had blackened. Ben opened a window while Maya waved a towel beneath the alarm, laughing so hard she had to lean against the counter.

They ate the salvageable middle on the floor, watched half the movie, and spent the rest of the evening planning their train trip.


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

From the living room, Daniel looked up from the tangle of string lights in his lap. “Define good.”

“The kind we bought on our first trip together.”

“The ones you hated?”

“I learned to appreciate them.”

They had been together six years, living in the same Minneapolis apartment for three. Their anniversary fell on a Thursday, between Daniel’s late shift at the library and Maya’s early meeting the next morning, so they had agreed on a quiet celebration at home.

Daniel finally freed the lights and draped them across the windows. Maya unpacked bread, cheese, olives, and a small chocolate cake. She had planned to cook pasta, but when she opened the refrigerator, she found a covered dish on the middle shelf.

“You already made dinner?”

“Lasagna,” Daniel said. “Mostly. It still needs baking.”

Maya lifted the foil. “You used my mother’s recipe.”

“I called her.”

“She likes you more than me.”

“She said the same thing.”

While the lasagna baked, they worked together to move the coffee table and spread a blanket on the rug. Daniel chose the playlist—songs from the summer they met—while Maya found the battered deck of cards they used to carry everywhere.

Halfway through dinner, the lights flickered and went out. The oven clock vanished, the music stopped, and the apartment fell silent.

Daniel reached for his phone, but Maya caught his wrist. “Wait.”

Streetlight filtered through the windows. The string lights, battery-powered, still glowed softly above them.

“This is better,” she said.

Daniel brought the cake from the counter. Maya lit a single candle and pressed it into the frosting.

They each made a wish, though neither admitted to having one. Then they played cards, argued cheerfully over the rules, and ate cake straight from the box.

When the power returned, Daniel stood to restart the music. Maya pulled him back down.

“Leave it,” she said.

So they sat together in the quiet, six years behind them, the rest still unplanned.


Maya got home before six, balancing a paper bag of groceries against her hip while she unlocked the apartment. She had promised Theo they would keep their anniversary simple this year—no crowded restaurant, no expensive gifts, just dinner and a movie at home.

Still, she had bought fresh pasta, mushrooms, and the good Parmesan.

Theo was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, studying a recipe on his phone. “You’re early,” he said, taking the bag from her.

“So are you.”

“I may have told my manager I had an important appointment.”

Maya raised an eyebrow. “Technically true.”

They had been together four years, ever since their first date at a minor-league baseball game outside Columbus. Two years later, they had moved into this apartment, where the radiators clanked and the upstairs neighbor vacuumed at strange hours. They weren’t married, though relatives occasionally asked when that might change. For now, they shared rent, chores, and a stubborn houseplant named Gerald.

Theo chopped mushrooms while Maya filled a pot with water. When the smoke detector chirped because he had overheated the skillet, she opened the window and waved a dish towel beneath it.

“Very romantic,” she said.

“I’m creating atmosphere.”

They ate at their small table beside the window. Maya had found a bottle of wine from the same Ohio vineyard they had visited during their second summer together. Theo produced two ticket stubs from the baseball game, flattened inside an old paperback.

“You kept those?” she asked.

“Of course.”

After dinner, they washed the dishes together. Maya scrubbed; Theo dried and put everything away. Then they carried blankets to the couch and argued amiably over which movie to watch.

Outside, traffic hissed on the wet street. Upstairs, the vacuum started again.

Theo reached for Maya’s hand under the blanket. “Good anniversary?”

She leaned against him, looking around at the apartment they had made theirs.

“Exactly the right kind,” she said.


Maya came home carrying a paper bag from the Italian market and found Daniel on the living-room floor, untangling a string of white lights.

“I thought we agreed on quiet,” she said, setting the bag on the counter.

“This is quiet,” Daniel replied. “I didn’t rent a marching band.”

It had been six years since their first date, though they still disagreed about whether coffee at the train station counted. They weren’t married, and neither felt in a hurry to change that. They shared a lease, a stubborn orange cat, and a calendar crowded with work deadlines. Tonight was one of the few squares they had protected.

Maya unpacked fresh pasta, tomatoes, and a small chocolate cake. Daniel draped the lights around the window, then joined her in the kitchen. He chopped garlic while she rolled basil leaves into tight green tubes.

“You’re cutting those too thick,” she said.

“You say that every time.”

“And every time, they’re too thick.”

He handed her the knife with exaggerated dignity and took over the sauce. When the smoke alarm chirped, Maya opened the window while Daniel rescued the garlic before it burned. The cat fled down the hallway.

Dinner was ready forty minutes later. They carried their bowls to the small balcony, where traffic murmured below and someone’s television played through an open window across the courtyard. Daniel poured sparkling water into wineglasses. Maya lit one candle, shielding the flame with her hand.

They exchanged gifts they had promised not to buy. Maya gave him a used paperback he had lost years ago, with a note tucked inside. Daniel gave her a printed photograph from their first road trip, newly framed.

After dinner, he washed the dishes while she dried them. Then Maya pulled him into the living room, put on the song that had played in the café six years earlier, and held out her hand.

They danced badly beneath the crooked lights, laughing when the cat tried to attack their feet. Outside, the city kept moving. Inside, for one evening, they let everything else wait.


Maya came home carrying a paper bag of groceries against her hip and found Daniel kneeling beside the coffee table, wrestling with a string of battery-powered lights.

“You said quiet,” she reminded him, setting the bag on the counter.

“This is quiet,” Daniel said. “They don’t even blink.”

It had been six years since their first date, though they disagreed about whether the anniversary should mark the rainy Tuesday when they met for coffee or the following Saturday, when Maya had kissed him outside a movie theater. They celebrated both, loosely, but tonight was the official one.

Maya unpacked mushrooms, pasta, and a small chocolate cake from the neighborhood bakery. Daniel finally arranged the lights around the window, where they cast a warm reflection over the glass.

Their apartment in Columbus was modest, and the dining table doubled as Daniel’s desk. He cleared away his laptop and stacks of invoices while Maya started dinner. When she discovered they were out of garlic, Daniel volunteered to run to the corner store, returning ten minutes later with garlic, sparkling water, and a bunch of yellow tulips.

“They were on sale,” he said.

“They’re perfect,” Maya replied, trimming the stems.

They cooked together, bumping elbows at the stove. Daniel stirred the sauce while Maya seasoned the mushrooms, tasting twice before adding pepper. Music played softly from a speaker on the refrigerator.

Over dinner, they traded memories: the broken umbrella on their first date, their first cramped apartment, the road trip when they got lost in Kentucky. Then Maya slid an envelope across the table. Inside were two tickets to a summer concert by Daniel’s favorite band.

Daniel laughed and handed her a small wrapped box. It held a silver keychain engraved with the coordinates of the coffee shop where they had met.

Later, they ate cake on the couch under a shared blanket. Outside, traffic hissed on wet pavement. Daniel reached for her hand.

“Still quiet enough?” he asked.

Maya leaned against him. “Exactly quiet enough.”


By six o’clock, rain had begun tapping against the windows of Maya and Daniel’s apartment in Pittsburgh. It was the fourth anniversary of the night they had first admitted they were more than friends, and they had agreed to celebrate quietly: dinner at home, no gifts, phones turned off.

Daniel arrived carrying a paper bag darkened by rain. “I found the good mushrooms,” he announced, setting it on the counter.

Maya looked up from the dining table, where she was arranging two mismatched candles. “And I fixed the speaker. So we can listen to our song without it cutting out.”

They had divided the work. Daniel chopped onions and mushrooms for risotto while Maya made a salad and opened a bottle of wine they had been saving. Their kitchen was narrow, and they kept bumping hips as they crossed between the stove and refrigerator.

“Four years, and you still stand in the worst possible place,” Maya said.

“You moved in knowing this,” Daniel replied, handing her a spoon. “Taste.”

The rice was undercooked. Maya told him so, and he sighed dramatically, then added broth. Meanwhile, she discovered the salad greens had wilted. She trimmed what she could and toasted walnuts to make up for it.

At seven thirty, the power flickered and went out.

For a moment they stood in the dark. Then Maya lit the candles, and Daniel found the camping lantern in the hall closet. The risotto finished cooking on the gas stove, though they ate it lukewarm at the small table beside the window.

Without the speaker, Daniel hummed their song badly. Maya joined in, equally off-key. They laughed until Daniel nearly spilled his wine.

Later, they washed the dishes together, Maya scrubbing and Daniel drying. The rain softened outside.

“This wasn’t exactly the plan,” he said.

Maya leaned against his shoulder. “It was quiet.”

He kissed her forehead. In the candlelit kitchen, with wet coats by the door and dishes stacked crookedly in the cabinet, the evening felt less like a celebration of one perfect beginning than of everything they had learned to repair, improvise, and share.


Maya checked the oven clock and frowned. “Forty minutes,” she said, nudging the temperature higher with one flour-dusted finger. “The potatoes are staging a protest.”

Across their small apartment kitchen, Daniel unfolded a paper map of the city over the counter. He had found it in a drawer beneath old takeout menus and spare batteries. Red circles marked the places they had visited during their first month together: the coffee shop where they met, the park where they shared an umbrella, the laundromat where Daniel finally asked if Maya wanted to call what they were doing a relationship.

That had been four years ago.

“I thought we agreed on a quiet evening,” Maya said, eyeing the map.

“It is quiet.” Daniel taped one corner down. “We’re not going anywhere.”

While Maya rescued the potatoes, Daniel arranged printed photographs beside the circles. Maya had planned dinner—roast chicken, salad, and the chocolate cake her mother used to make. Daniel had promised dessert, but when he saw the cake cooling on the windowsill, he admitted his contribution was a pint of vanilla ice cream.

“That counts,” Maya said. “Barely.”

They worked around each other in the narrow space. Daniel washed dishes as Maya finished the sauce. Maya chose a playlist while Daniel lit two candles, then moved one away from the smoke detector.

Halfway through dinner, the lights flickered and went out.

For a moment, they sat in silence. Somewhere in the building, a child cheered.

Daniel found a flashlight. Maya brought the candles closer and divided the melting ice cream between two bowls. The chicken cooled, the cake leaned slightly in the dark, and rain began tapping the fire escape.

Daniel pointed to the map. “We should add tonight.”

Maya took the red marker and drew a circle around their apartment.

“Power outage?” he asked.

“No,” she said, writing the date beside it. “The year we finally stopped trying to make everything perfect.”

Daniel raised his bowl. Maya tapped hers against it, and together they listened to the rain.


By six o’clock, rain had softened the view from Maya and Ben’s apartment windows into streaks of silver. It was the fifth anniversary of the night they had decided, over tacos and a stalled subway train, to call what they had a relationship.

They had agreed on a quiet celebration at home. Maya stopped at the neighborhood market after work and returned with a bottle of wine, fresh bread, and a small bundle of daisies.

“You said no gifts,” Ben called from the kitchen.

“Flowers are groceries,” she replied, shaking rain from her jacket.

Ben had already started dinner. He stood over a skillet, attempting to recreate the mushroom pasta they had eaten on their first weekend trip together. Maya tasted the sauce, added more pepper, and nudged him aside to lower the heat before it scorched.

“You’re saving dinner,” he said.

“I’m saving the pan.”

While the pasta simmered, Ben set their tiny table with cloth napkins they rarely used. Maya found the old playlist they had made during their first year together, though they skipped several songs after realizing their early taste had not aged well.

They ate by the window, talking about ordinary things: Ben’s difficult client, Maya’s sister’s upcoming visit, the leaking faucet they kept forgetting to report. Then Maya brought out a shoebox from the closet. Inside were ticket stubs, birthday cards, and the receipt from the taco place where they had first defined their relationship.

Ben laughed. “You kept the receipt?”

“You kept the train-delay notice.”

“That was evidence.”

After dinner, they washed dishes together—Ben scrubbing, Maya drying—and debated whether they should move to a larger apartment when the lease ended. Neither offered a dramatic answer, but both began listing neighborhoods they liked.

They finished the wine on the couch under the blanket they always fought over. Outside, tires whispered on wet pavement.

“Happy anniversary,” Ben said.

Maya leaned against him. “Quiet enough for you?”

He looked at the dishes drying in their rack and the daisies in a water glass.

“Exactly enough,” he said.


Maya came home carrying a paper bag that smelled of garlic and warm bread. She found Daniel at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, staring suspiciously at a bowl of pasta dough.

“You said quiet evening,” she said, setting down the bag. “Not culinary crisis.”

“It’s not a crisis yet.” He poked the dough. “But I bought backup ravioli.”

They had been together six years, ever since a rainy Thursday when Daniel had finally admitted, outside a crowded movie theater, that he wanted their friendship to become something more. Now they shared a small apartment in Columbus, Ohio, along with a temperamental radiator and a cat named June.

Maya unpacked salad greens, bread, and a bottle of wine. “I got the same kind we had that night.”

“The eight-dollar one?”

“It’s twelve now. Inflation.”

While Daniel rolled the dough, Maya chopped mushrooms and onions for the filling. He reminded her how she had made him wait in the rain for an answer. She reminded him that she had answered in under thirty seconds.

“Longest thirty seconds of my life,” he said.

They worked side by side, bumping elbows in the narrow kitchen. Half the ravioli split open in the pot, but the rest survived. Maya lit two candles, and Daniel turned off the overhead light. June immediately jumped onto the empty chair and stared at their plates.

They ate slowly, laughing at the uneven pasta and talking about the year behind them: Maya’s new job at the library, Daniel’s night classes, the leak they had finally convinced the landlord to repair. Then Maya brought out a small envelope. Inside was a printed reservation for a cabin near Lake Erie in October.

Daniel smiled. “I thought we weren’t doing gifts.”

“It’s not a gift. It’s a plan.”

He reached into a drawer and handed her two tickets to a concert she had mentioned months ago.

“Also a plan,” he said.

After dinner, they washed dishes together, opened the wine, and watched the movie they had missed six years earlier. Halfway through, Maya fell asleep against Daniel’s shoulder. He lowered the volume, and the quiet evening continued exactly as they had hoped.


Maya came home carrying a paper bag from the Italian grocery and found Daniel crouched beside the coffee table, untangling a strand of white lights.

“You said quiet,” she reminded him, setting down the bag.

“This is quiet,” he said. “Quiet with improved lighting.”

It had been six years since their first date, though they still disagreed about when the relationship had actually begun. Daniel counted the rainy Tuesday when they shared tacos after work. Maya counted the following Saturday, when he drove forty minutes to help her move a secondhand dresser. They had never married, but they had built a life together in a rented duplex outside Minneapolis: two bicycles in the garage, mismatched mugs, and a cat named June who considered every cardboard box her property.

Maya unpacked fresh pasta, mushrooms, and a small chocolate cake. Daniel finished hanging the lights around the window, then joined her in the kitchen. He sliced mushrooms while she rolled pasta dough through the hand-cranked machine they had bought during lockdown.

“Too thin,” he said.

“You say that every time.”

“And every time it tears.”

She handed him the crank. “Then you do it.”

He did, concentrating so hard that Maya laughed. Together they made crooked ravioli, sealing ricotta inside with the tines of a fork. Several split in the pot, but enough survived for dinner.

Afterward, Daniel cleared the plates while Maya found the old shoebox where they kept ticket stubs and printed photographs. They sat on the rug beneath the lights, passing memories back and forth: a baseball game in Chicago, a camping trip ruined by mosquitoes, the receipt from the dresser rental truck.

Daniel raised his glass. “To the Tuesday.”

Maya touched hers to it. “To the Saturday.”

June climbed into the empty shoebox and turned around twice before settling down.

They laughed, and Daniel cut the cake while Maya chose a record. Outside, snow began to dust the parked cars. Inside, their small home glowed, imperfect and familiar, exactly as they had planned.


On the seventh anniversary of their first date, Maya left work early and took the bus across town to the small Italian market she and Daniel liked. They had agreed on a quiet celebration at home—no reservations, no gifts, just dinner and the old movie they had watched the night they finally admitted they were a couple.

At the market, Maya chose fresh pasta, tomatoes, basil, and a wedge of Parmesan. Then she added a bottle of sparkling cider because Daniel was driving early the next morning. When she reached their apartment in Minneapolis, she found him kneeling beside the coffee table, untangling a string of white lights.

“I thought these were dead,” she said.

“Only half dead,” Daniel replied. “I’m negotiating with them.”

While he hung the working lights around the living-room window, Maya started the sauce. Daniel grated cheese, then set the table with the mismatched plates they had collected from thrift stores. They moved around each other easily, opening drawers without asking, trading the wooden spoon back and forth.

Halfway through cooking, the smoke alarm shrieked. Daniel waved a dish towel beneath it while Maya rescued the garlic bread from the oven.

“Romantic,” she said, laughing.

“Memorable,” he corrected.

After dinner, Daniel brought out a small envelope. Maya frowned. “We said no gifts.”

“It isn’t a gift.”

Inside was a printed list titled *Things We Should Do This Year*. It included visiting Maya’s sister in Oregon, finally painting the bedroom, taking a pottery class, and deciding whether they were ready to buy a house.

Maya read it twice. Then she took a pen from the kitchen counter and added: *Learn to make garlic bread without setting off the alarm.*

Daniel added: *Keep choosing each other, even on ordinary Tuesdays.*

They carried their plates to the sink together, then settled onto the couch beneath the flickering lights. Outside, snow began to soften the parked cars. Maya pressed play, and Daniel tucked a blanket over both their knees. The evening was quiet, imperfect, and exactly theirs.


Maya came home early with a paper bag of groceries tucked against her hip and found Daniel kneeling beside the coffee table, trying to untangle a string of warm-white lights.

“You said quiet,” she reminded him, shutting the apartment door with her foot.

“This is quiet,” Daniel said. “I’m not using power tools.”

It had been six years since their first date at a cramped noodle shop in Chicago, back when they lived in separate apartments and measured commitment in toothbrushes left overnight. Now they shared a two-bedroom rental, a rescue dog, and a calendar crowded with work deadlines.

Maya unpacked mushrooms, pasta, and a bottle of inexpensive red wine. Their original plan had been to return to the noodle shop, but a week of long shifts had left them both too tired to dress up. She had suggested cooking at home. Daniel had agreed, then secretly bought lights and downloaded the playlist they used to listen to on late-night drives.

While he draped the lights along the windows, Maya started dinner. She sliced mushrooms and put Daniel to work grating Parmesan. He grated too quickly, scattering cheese across the counter.

“You’re cleaning that,” she said.

“Already planned on it.”

They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen, bumping elbows, tasting the sauce, and arguing mildly over whether it needed more salt. Daniel set the table with their mismatched plates. Maya found two candles in the junk drawer, both half burned, and lit them anyway.

During dinner, they traded memories: the broken umbrella on their second date, the road trip when they got lost in Ohio, the night they adopted Pepper. From under the table, the dog thumped her tail at hearing her name.

Afterward, Daniel washed dishes while Maya dried. Then she pulled him into the living room when their old song began playing.

They danced in socks between the couch and coffee table, careful not to step on Pepper. Outside, traffic hissed on wet pavement. Inside, the pasta cooled in the pan, the lights glowed unevenly, and neither of them wanted the evening to be any grander than it was.


On the morning of their tenth anniversary, Elena found Marcus standing in the kitchen of their rented townhouse in Ohio, scrolling through hotel prices while the coffee maker sputtered.

“What about Chicago?” he asked. “Two nights, nice dinner, maybe the art museum.”

Elena set down her work bag. “I’d love that, but the water heater is making that noise again.”

As if summoned, the pipes knocked in the wall.

They had been together for ten years and living together for seven. They weren’t married, partly because neither cared much about a wedding and partly because life kept presenting more urgent expenses: student loans, Marcus’s dental work, Elena’s father’s funeral. Still, ten years felt important. They wanted to mark it in a way that didn’t disappear into another ordinary week.

That evening, they sat at the dining table with takeout containers and a legal pad. Marcus wrote “TRIP” at the top. Elena wrote “HOUSE” beside it.

“We could do both smaller,” she said.

They agreed on one night in a nearby lakeside town instead of Chicago. They booked a modest inn with a porch facing the water and reserved a table at a restaurant they had passed many times but never tried. With the remaining money, they scheduled a plumber.

On Saturday, they drove north with a thermos of coffee and a playlist they had made during their first year together. At the inn, Elena gave Marcus a thin envelope containing ten printed photographs, one from each year. Marcus handed her a small wooden box he had built in his garage workshop. Inside was a note: “For the next ten years of ticket stubs, keys, and things we don’t want to lose.”

After dinner, they walked along the lake. The wind was cold, and Marcus offered Elena his gloves. She took one and left the other for him.

“This feels right,” she said.

He squeezed her bare hand. “Better than a broken water heater in Chicago.”

They laughed, then stood quietly at the railing, watching the lights ripple across the dark water.


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

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

Daniel slid a mug toward her. “I’m trying to be realistic. We could do a weekend in Chicago, dinner at that place downtown, or stay home and finally fix the backyard.”

They had shared the small Ohio bungalow for six years, though they had never married. Their anniversary marked their first date: tacos from a food truck, eaten on a curb during a summer thunderstorm.

Maya studied the list. Chicago sounded exciting, but airfare had risen, and their dog needed medication twice a day. The restaurant was possible, though neither of them liked dressing up enough to justify the price. The backyard option felt practical, which was precisely the problem.

“I don’t want our tenth anniversary to become a trip to the hardware store,” she said.

Daniel nodded. “But I also don’t want us to spend a thousand dollars proving we’re happy.”

They carried their coffee onto the porch. Across the yard, weeds crowded the fire pit they had built during their first year in the house. Maya remembered Daniel burning the marshmallows and insisting they tasted better that way.

“What if we redo our first date?” she suggested. “Same taco truck, if it still exists. Then come home, clean this up, and have a fire.”

Daniel searched on his phone. The truck had become a small restaurant fifteen minutes away. They reserved a patio table for Saturday and spent the afternoon pulling weeds, stringing lights, and arguing mildly about where to place two new chairs.

That evening, they ate tacos while rain tapped the patio awning. Back home, Daniel lit the fire, and Maya brought out a grocery-store cake with a crooked “10” piped in blue icing.

“No grand gesture,” he said, raising his glass.

Maya leaned against him. “This is grand enough.”

They watched sparks rise into the damp Ohio night, pleased that the celebration felt less like a performance and more like the life they had chosen together.


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

“Budget meeting?” she asked, eyeing the columns he had drawn.

“Anniversary meeting,” he said. “Ten years deserves planning.”

They had met at a friend’s barbecue in Milwaukee, moved in together four years later, and recently bought a small bungalow near Lake Michigan. Neither had felt strongly about marriage, but ten years together seemed too important to treat like an ordinary Friday.

Elena wanted to return to the lakeside inn where they had spent their first weekend away. Marcus liked the idea until he checked the rates.

“Seven hundred dollars for two nights,” he said. “Before dinner.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Elena agreed, though she sounded disappointed.

Marcus suggested hosting a party in their backyard. Elena reminded him that October weather in Wisconsin could mean sunshine, rain, or sleet. They considered a fancy restaurant, a weekend in Chicago, and even matching tattoos, which made them both laugh.

For several days, the question followed them through the house. They discussed it while folding laundry, walking their dog, and replacing a loose cabinet hinge. Finally, on Wednesday evening, Elena opened a box of old photographs.

“What if we redo our first date?” she asked.

Their first date had been inexpensive: tacos from a food truck, a walk along the lake, and a late movie at a theater that had since closed. Marcus suggested adding one new thing for the life they had built since then.

On their anniversary, they bought tacos and ate them on a bench overlooking the water, wrapped in scarves against the wind. Afterward, they drove home, where six close friends were waiting with cake and champagne. Marcus had arranged the gathering, while Elena had made a playlist of songs from each year they had been together.

Before cutting the cake, they exchanged letters. Neither proposed, and neither expected it. Instead, they read promises about patience, honesty, and taking care of the aging bungalow together.

Later, after everyone left, Elena leaned against Marcus in the quiet kitchen.

“This felt like us,” she said.

Marcus looked at the empty glasses and crooked streamers. “Exactly like us.”


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

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Our anniversary plan,” he said. “Ten years deserves organization.”

Maya laughed and sat across from him. They had met at a friend’s barbecue in Milwaukee, moved in together three years later, and bought their small bungalow after year seven. They had never married, partly because neither felt strongly about it and partly because life kept presenting more immediate expenses: student loans, a leaking roof, Ben’s father’s medical bills.

At the top of the page, Ben had written: **Trip**, **Party**, and **Something Permanent**.

“A trip sounds good,” Maya said, “but I don’t want to spend the whole weekend in airports.”

“A party would mean cleaning the basement.”

They both looked toward the basement door.

“No party,” they said together.

Under “Something Permanent,” Ben had listed matching tattoos, new porch furniture, and planting a tree. Maya crossed out tattoos immediately.

By noon, they had narrowed the choices to a weekend at a lakeside cabin or a sugar maple for the backyard. The cabin offered quiet, hiking, and no household chores. The tree, Maya pointed out, would still be there for their twentieth anniversary.

“Unless it dies,” Ben said.

“Very romantic.”

They carried their coffee outside. The yard was bright with fallen leaves, and the empty corner near the fence looked suddenly obvious. Ben imagined a broad canopy shading a bench. Maya pictured autumn color visible from the kitchen window.

They decided to do both, modestly. They booked one night at a state park cabin and ordered a young maple from a local nursery. On their anniversary morning, they dug the hole together. Ben handled the shovel while Maya loosened the roots and checked the depth.

When the tree stood straight, they packed the soil down with their boots and watered it.

“No rings,” Maya said, leaning against him.

“No basement party,” Ben replied.

They went inside to pack for the cabin, leaving the maple in the cool October sun—small, practical, and hopeful, like the life they had built together.


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

“Very romantic,” she said, pulling out a chair.

Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away. They had lived together for seven years in a small house outside Minneapolis, where the furnace rattled and the maple tree dropped leaves faster than they could rake them. Because they weren’t married, they had never settled on which date counted most: their first date, the day Ben moved in, or the afternoon they signed the mortgage papers.

“I vote first date,” Ben said. “Less paperwork involved.”

Maya smiled. “And better food.”

They considered flying to New Orleans, but airfare was high. A party sounded fun until they listed everyone they would feel obligated to invite. “Other” remained blank until Maya mentioned the state park where they had spent their first weekend away together.

They had been twenty-nine then, sleeping badly in a borrowed tent while rain leaked through the seams. Now they owned decent camping gear but had less patience for cold ground.

“What if we rent one of the cabins?” she asked. “Two nights. Hiking, no phones, and we make that terrible chili again.”

“It wasn’t terrible,” Ben said. “It was under-seasoned.”

They booked a cabin for the anniversary weekend. Ben offered to plan the meals if Maya chose the trails. She reserved a table at a nearby supper club for Saturday night, arguing that ten years deserved at least one dinner they didn’t have to wash up after.

On the actual anniversary, a Wednesday, they both worked late. Ben brought home grocery-store flowers; Maya picked up Thai food from the place where they’d had their second date. They ate on the couch and exchanged cards.

In his, Ben wrote that he still chose her, even without vows or a ceremony to remind him. Maya read it twice, then leaned against his shoulder.

“So,” she said, “first date is officially the date?”

“Until the mortgage anniversary demands equal recognition.”

Outside, leaves scraped along the sidewalk. Inside, they opened the calendar and began planning year eleven.


On a rainy Tuesday evening in Portland, Maya found Daniel standing at the kitchen counter with two takeout menus and a legal pad.

“Our tenth anniversary is in three weeks,” he said. “I thought we should decide before every decent place is booked.”

Maya set down her grocery bag. They had been together for ten years, unmarried by mutual agreement, and had shared the small blue bungalow for six. Usually they marked anniversaries with dinner, but ten years felt different.

Daniel had written three options: a weekend at the coast, a backyard party, or a reservation at the Italian restaurant where they had gone on their first date.

“The coast sounds peaceful,” Maya said, “but I don’t want to spend the whole weekend worrying about the dogs.”

“And a party means cleaning the house for two days,” Daniel replied.

They laughed because both objections were predictable. Maya poured them each a glass of wine while Daniel heated leftover soup. Over dinner, they talked about what they actually wanted from the occasion. Daniel wanted time alone together. Maya wanted to include the friends and relatives who had supported them through job changes, her father’s illness, and the year their basement flooded.

“What if we do both, but smaller?” she suggested. “Dinner at the Italian place on Friday, then brunch here on Sunday.”

Daniel considered the budget. They had been saving to replace the roof, and neither wanted an anniversary celebration to become a credit-card problem. They agreed on dinner, one night at a modest hotel downtown, and a potluck brunch in their backyard.

The following weekend, Maya called the restaurant while Daniel made a guest list. He suggested displaying photographs from each year they had been together. She proposed planting a dogwood tree, something that would remain after the food and champagne were gone.

On their anniversary morning, they dug the hole together near the back fence. The soil was damp and stubborn. Daniel held the young tree straight while Maya packed earth around its roots.

“It looks smaller than I imagined,” he said.

“So did the house when we bought it,” Maya replied.

They stood back, muddy and satisfied, already picturing it ten years taller.


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

“So,” he said, turning the laptop toward her, “romance or reliable plumbing?”

They had bought the small house outside Minneapolis three years earlier, though only Daniel’s name was on the mortgage because Maya’s credit had still been recovering from graduate school debt. They split expenses according to income, kept separate bank accounts, and had never married. Their life together was serious but practical, built from shared groceries, dog-walking schedules, and Sunday calls with both families.

Maya set down her work bag. “The heater isn’t leaking yet.”

“It made that knocking sound again.”

“It always makes that sound.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “That is not reassuring.”

Their anniversary marked the night they had met at a friend’s crowded birthday party. In past years, they had gone to concerts or expensive dinners. Ten years seemed to require something larger, but neither wanted to spend money just to prove the date mattered.

They made pasta and discussed options while their dog, Pepper, waited beneath the table. Daniel wanted one night at the hotel. Maya suggested inviting friends for a backyard dinner. Then Daniel admitted he disliked being the center of a toast, and Maya confessed she didn’t want to spend their anniversary cleaning the house for guests.

After dinner, she pulled a shoebox from the hall closet. Inside were ticket stubs, old photographs, and the receipt from their first dinner together.

“What if we revisit the important places?” she asked. “Coffee where we met, lunch by our first apartment, then dinner here.”

Daniel considered it. “And we finally plant that maple tree?”

They had talked about planting one since moving in.

On Saturday, they followed their old route across the city, laughing at how much had changed. That evening, they planted the young maple near the back fence, taking turns with the shovel.

Later, sitting on the porch with takeout and champagne, Daniel touched Maya’s muddy hand.

“Ten years,” he said.

“And a new water heater next month,” she replied.

That felt exactly like them.


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

“Dinner out, weekend away, or something irresponsible,” he said.

She dropped her keys into the bowl by the door. “Define irresponsible.”

“Hotel downtown. Room service. Tickets to that jazz show you keep mentioning.”

Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away—not a wedding anniversary, since they had never married, but the date of their first real date at a crowded noodle shop in Seattle. They now shared a bungalow outside Portland, along with a mortgage, an elderly dog, and a persistent disagreement about where to store reusable grocery bags.

Maya sat across from him. “That sounds nice. But Juniper can’t handle boarding anymore.”

At the sound of her name, the dog lifted her gray muzzle from the rug.

Eli tapped his pen. “My sister could stay here.”

“Maybe.” Maya looked around the kitchen they had painted together, badly, during their first winter in the house. “I don’t know. Ten years feels bigger than one expensive night.”

He nodded. “So what would feel right?”

They spent the morning making suggestions. Maya proposed returning to the noodle shop, but it had closed years ago. Eli suggested a party, then admitted he hated being the center of attention. They considered new rings, a road trip, and finally, half joking, another home project.

By lunch, they had a plan.

On their anniversary, they would plant a Japanese maple in the bare corner of the backyard, then cook the meal they remembered from that first date: spicy noodles, dumplings, and too much sake. Eli would make a playlist from every year they had been together. Maya would print photographs, including the unflattering ones.

“And next spring,” Eli said, “the jazz show.”

Maya smiled. “That’s suspiciously practical.”

“We’re homeowners. Practical is romantic now.”

Three weeks later, they stood in damp soil, passing the shovel back and forth while Juniper watched from the porch. The tree was smaller than Maya had imagined, its branches thin against the cloudy sky.

“It’ll grow,” Eli said.

She leaned into him, muddy gloves and all. “That’s the idea.”


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

“Dinner, trip, or party?” he asked.

Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away. They had shared the bungalow in Columbus for six years, along with a nervous rescue dog and a mortgage in both their names. Friends sometimes asked when they planned to marry. Maya and Daniel had learned to answer with a shrug. Ten years still felt worth honoring.

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

“And a trip sounds expensive,” Daniel said. Their furnace had started making a metallic rattle, and neither of them trusted it to survive another Ohio winter.

They considered a fancy restaurant, then remembered their fifth anniversary, when they had spent too much money on tiny portions and returned home hungry. Daniel suggested recreating their first date at the bowling alley, but Maya reminded him that the place had become a self-storage facility.

“What did we actually like about that night?” she asked.

Daniel thought for a moment. “Talking until they asked us to leave.”

“And the terrible nachos.”

“They were objectively terrible.”

By noon, they had a plan. On their anniversary, they would take the day off, walk the trail where they had first discussed moving in together, and invite six close friends for dinner at home. They would make tacos, serve grocery-store cake, and ask everyone to bring a photograph or memory from the past decade. The money they might have spent on a weekend away would go toward the furnace—and one indulgence: a small maple tree for the backyard.

Three weeks later, after their friends left, Maya and Daniel stood beside the newly planted tree under the porch light. The evening had included burnt tortillas, affectionate speeches, and their dog stealing frosting from a plate.

Daniel slipped his hand into Maya’s. “Not very glamorous.”

Maya leaned against him, looking through the window at their cluttered, warm house.

“No,” she said. “But it feels like us.”


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

“Ten years deserves a plan,” he said.

They had met at a friend’s game night in Chicago, moved in together three years later, and eventually bought a small house outside Milwaukee. Marriage had never felt urgent to either of them, but the anniversary did. Ten years seemed worth marking in a way that felt intentional.

Maya sat across from him. “What are the columns?”

“Trip, party, and something quiet.”

Under “trip,” Ben had written New Orleans, Seattle, and a cabin near Lake Superior. Maya liked the cabin idea but worried about leaving their elderly dog with a sitter. A party sounded fun, yet both of them knew they would spend the evening refilling drinks and checking whether everyone was comfortable.

“Something quiet” had only one entry: dinner at home.

“That seems a little ordinary,” Maya said.

Ben nodded. “Unless we make it not ordinary.”

They spent the next hour building a plan. On Friday, they would take the day off. They would return to the neighborhood where they had first lived together, get lunch at the diner that used to be their Sunday habit, and walk past their old apartment. That evening, they would cook the complicated mushroom lasagna they had attempted on their first anniversary, when they had burned the top and eaten it anyway.

Maya suggested one more thing: each of them would choose five photographs from their decade together and explain why they mattered. Ben added that they should write letters to open on their twentieth anniversary.

The following week, they mailed invitations for a casual backyard brunch on Sunday—nothing elaborate, just family, close friends, bagels, and cake.

“It’s both quiet and a party,” Maya said, taping the guest list to the refrigerator.

“And almost a trip,” Ben replied.

She laughed and leaned against him. Their plan was modest, but it belonged to both of them, which felt like the right way to honor ten years.


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

“You’re making an agenda?” she asked.

“I’m preventing us from spending our anniversary comparing restaurant reviews until midnight.”

They had lived together in Columbus, Ohio, for seven years, in a narrow brick house with a leaky basement and a maple tree that dropped leaves faster than they could rake them. They had never married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony would make their life more real. Still, ten years together seemed worth marking.

Maya wanted to take a trip. Daniel worried about money; the furnace had started making a metallic knocking sound. He suggested dinner at the Italian place where they’d had their first date.

“It closed during the pandemic,” Maya reminded him.

Daniel crossed it off the list.

They considered a cabin in West Virginia, a party in their backyard, and matching tattoos, which made them both laugh. Then Maya found an old photo on her phone: the two of them at Hocking Hills during their first autumn together, Daniel holding a paper map upside down while Maya pointed toward a trail marker.

“What if we go back?” she said. “Just for the day. And then have people over Sunday.”

Daniel calculated gas, groceries, and a furnace repair estimate. “That we can do.”

Together they planned a morning hike, lunch at a roadside diner, and a small backyard potluck the next afternoon. Maya texted friends while Daniel made a playlist with one song from each year they had been together. They agreed not to exchange expensive gifts. Instead, each would write a letter about what they hoped the next ten years might hold.

On their anniversary, rain softened the hills and emptied the trails. They walked beneath wet orange leaves, sharing one umbrella badly. At an overlook, Daniel handed Maya his letter.

“Now?” she asked.

“Now,” he said.

She gave him hers, and they read side by side, close enough that their shoulders touched.


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three browser tabs displaying mountain cabins.

“Are we moving?” she asked, setting down the grocery bags.

“Ten years,” he said. “I thought we should do something bigger than dinner.”

Their anniversary fell on a Wednesday. They had been together for a decade and had shared their small house outside Columbus for six years, but they had never married. The date mattered to them anyway: October 18, the evening they first met at a friend’s crowded birthday party.

Maya leaned over his shoulder. The cabins were beautiful—and expensive. One required a four-night minimum. Another had no Wi-Fi, which Daniel considered charming and Maya considered a problem because she was covering a project deadline.

“What if we don’t turn it into a test of how romantic we are?” she said.

Daniel closed the laptop. “Fair.”

They unpacked groceries and talked while making soup. Maya suggested revisiting the bar where they had met, but it had closed during the pandemic. Daniel proposed a fancy restaurant downtown. Maya liked the idea until they checked the menu and realized dinner would cost nearly as much as a weekend away.

Finally, Daniel pointed his spoon at the living room. “What about a party here?”

Maya looked around at the dog bed, the leaning bookshelf, and the paint sample squares they had left on the wall for eight months. “A small one.”

They invited twelve friends, including the couple who had introduced them. On Wednesday night, they kept the anniversary itself private. They ordered Thai food, opened a bottle of wine they had been saving, and sat on the back steps under a blanket.

Daniel gave Maya a printed photo from each year they had been together. Maya handed him a letter describing the ordinary things she loved: his early coffee, his terrible singing, the way he always filled her car with gas before long trips.

The party came Saturday. Their friends crowded the kitchen, brought mismatched desserts, and argued over which stories were accurate. Nothing about it looked grand. Still, when Maya caught Daniel’s eye across their noisy home, they both knew they had chosen exactly right.


On the morning of their tenth anniversary, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and three browser tabs open on his laptop.

“I have options,” he announced.

Lena sat across from him. “That sounds dangerous.”

They had lived together in their small Oregon bungalow for six years, long enough to know that Marcus’s “options” usually involved spreadsheets. One tab showed a coastal hotel, another a restaurant in Portland, and the third a cabin near Mount Hood.

“The hotel is expensive,” he said. “The restaurant has one reservation left, but it’s at four thirty. The cabin has no cell service.”

Lena took a sip of coffee. “You say that last part like it’s bad.”

Their anniversary had always been informal. They weren’t married, and neither felt particularly drawn to becoming so, but ten years seemed too important for their usual takeout and a movie. Still, the past month had been costly: the water heater had failed, Lena’s car needed new brakes, and Marcus had recently cut back his hours to finish a certification course.

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

Marcus looked disappointed, though he tried not to show it. “I wanted it to feel different.”

“So do I.” She glanced toward the backyard, where their old maple tree was beginning to turn red. “What about a party? Just the people who’ve been part of our life together.”

They spent the afternoon making a guest list. Marcus suggested ordering food from the Thai restaurant where they’d had their first date. Lena found a local bakery that could recreate the lemon cake they’d shared afterward. They agreed to hang photographs along the fence—one from each year—and set up a firepit if the weather stayed dry.

On the anniversary evening, twelve friends crowded into the yard carrying wine, folding chairs, and stories. Marcus gave a short toast, thanking everyone for helping them build a life that felt steady and chosen.

Lena raised her glass. “And affordable,” she added.

Everyone laughed. Marcus leaned over and kissed her.

Later, beneath the photographs and string lights, they agreed it felt better than a hotel: not an escape from their ordinary life, but a celebration of it.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three hotel tabs glowing on the screen.

“Are we planning a vacation?” she asked, setting down the grocery bags.

“Maybe,” he said. “Ten years next month feels like it deserves more than takeout.”

They had been together since their last year of college and had shared the small Oregon bungalow for six years. They weren’t married, partly because neither felt urgency and partly because every conversation about a wedding turned into a discussion about cost, family expectations, and whether they wanted one at all. Still, ten years mattered.

Maya pulled up a chair. Daniel showed her a coastal resort, a cabin near Mount Hood, and train tickets to Seattle. The resort was expensive. The cabin required driving in possible snow. Seattle sounded fun, but Maya admitted she didn’t want to spend their anniversary rushing between reservations.

“What if we stay home?” she said. “Not in the usual way. We could make a whole weekend of it.”

Daniel looked skeptical until she explained. They would revisit the coffee shop where they had first met, walk through the neighborhood where they rented their first apartment, and cook the elaborate mushroom risotto they had attempted—and ruined—on their first anniversary. On Sunday, they could invite a few close friends for brunch.

“And exchange gifts?” he asked.

“Small ones,” Maya said firmly.

They spent the afternoon making a list. Daniel volunteered to handle brunch and create a playlist from each year they had been together. Maya reserved a table at the coffee shop and ordered prints of old photographs for an album they could assemble together.

On their anniversary, rain tapped against the windows, and the risotto took longer than expected. Daniel stirred while Maya grated Parmesan and read aloud from old text messages she had saved. They laughed at their younger selves and talked honestly about the next decade—travel, aging parents, and whether they might eventually marry.

Nothing was decided that night. But when they raised their glasses at their own kitchen table, the celebration felt exactly right: not grand, but deliberate, shared, and entirely theirs.


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

“What’s this?” she asked, hanging her damp jacket by the door.

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

Maya laughed and sat across from him. They had shared the small blue house for six years, accumulating mismatched furniture, a stubborn garden, and a dog that slept under the table whenever they talked.

Daniel’s first choice was a week in Hawaii. Maya pointed to the estimate and reminded him that the roof had started leaking over the laundry room. Her idea was a large party in the backyard, with friends from every stage of their relationship. Daniel liked the sentiment but admitted that hosting forty people made him anxious.

They debated through dinner. Neither wanted the anniversary to feel ordinary, but both knew that expensive gestures had never suited them. Their first date had been at a food cart. Their fifth anniversary had ended with a flat tire and gas-station cupcakes.

“What if we go back to the coast?” Maya suggested. “The same town where we took our first trip.”

Daniel considered it. They could rent a modest cabin for two nights, bring the dog, and still afford the roof repair. On Saturday, they would hike to the overlook where they had once gotten lost in fog. On Sunday, they could invite their closest friends to the house for dinner.

“And no gifts,” he said. “We each write a letter.”

“Real letters,” Maya agreed. “Not cards with three sentences.”

They made reservations before they could overthink it. Then Daniel crossed out Hawaii, and Maya reduced the party guest list to eight.

Later, they stood in the laundry room listening to rain tap into a bucket. Daniel put an arm around her waist.

“Very romantic,” he said.

Maya leaned against him. “Ten years is partly romance and partly knowing when to fix the roof.”

Together, they moved the bucket beneath a new drip and returned to the kitchen to plan the menu.


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

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Our tenth-anniversary summit,” he said. “Column one: places we can afford. Column two: places we can’t afford but will stare at online.”

They had lived together for seven years in a small house outside Minneapolis, where the gutters needed cleaning and the washing machine had recently begun making alarming noises. They weren’t married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony would make their commitment more real. Still, ten years since their first date felt important.

Maya sat across from him. She had imagined a long weekend in New York, where they had met, but flights were expensive. Daniel wanted to rent a cabin along Lake Superior, though he admitted October weather could mean rain, sleet, or both.

“What if we stay here?” Maya asked. “Not just stay home like any weekend. Actually plan it.”

Daniel looked doubtful until she began listing ideas. They could recreate their first dinner—cheap Thai food eaten on moving boxes—then visit the neighborhood where they had shared their first apartment. Daniel suggested making a photo book, including the bad years as well as the vacations: his layoff, her father’s illness, the winter their pipes froze.

“And one good gift,” he said. “Something for both of us.”

They decided on a young maple tree for the backyard. On their anniversary, they dug the hole together, taking turns with the shovel. The soil was heavy, and Daniel’s shoes filled with mud. Maya held the trunk straight while he packed dirt around the roots.

That evening, they ordered Thai food and ate from cartons on the living-room floor. They exchanged letters they had written about the next ten years. Neither letter mentioned marriage. Both mentioned the house, the tree, and growing older side by side.

Outside, rain tapped the windows. Daniel raised his carton.

“To staying,” he said.

Maya touched hers to it. “And choosing to.”


On the evening before their tenth anniversary, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two open laptops, a legal pad, and the determined expression he usually reserved for comparing health insurance plans.

“I’ve narrowed it down,” he said. “Cabin in Vermont, tasting menu downtown, or a weekend in New Orleans.”

Maya set down the grocery bag. “Our anniversary is Saturday.”

“I know. That’s why this is efficient.”

They had met at a friend’s barbecue in Chicago and moved into their bungalow six years later, unmarried by mutual agreement. Their shared life had accumulated quietly: a mortgage, a rescue dog named Pepper, and a refrigerator crowded with postcards. Ten years felt important, but neither wanted to turn it into a performance.

Maya opened the Vermont listing. “Three-night minimum. And Pepper can’t come.”

Daniel frowned. “New Orleans?”

“Flights are ridiculous.”

They considered the restaurant. Maya liked the idea until Daniel reminded her that the tasting menu cost nearly as much as replacing the leaking water heater.

“So we celebrate ten years by being responsible homeowners?” she asked.

“Very romantic.”

Pepper wandered in, carrying one of Maya’s socks. They both laughed, and the tension dissolved.

Maya pulled a postcard from the refrigerator—the lakeside park where they had spent their first date after the barbecue. “What if we go back here?”

Daniel studied it. “Pack lunch, rent a canoe, take Pepper?”

“And afterward, we finally buy that ridiculous cake from the bakery on Clark.”

“The one with the gold icing?”

“The very one.”

On Saturday, the sky was clear and cool. Daniel packed sandwiches while Maya filled a thermos with coffee. At the lake, they paddled badly, drifting in circles until Pepper barked at a duck and nearly tipped them over.

Later, sitting on the grass, they exchanged letters they had written that morning. Daniel’s made Maya cry; hers made him laugh hard enough to wipe his eyes.

That evening, they ate gold-frosted cake on their porch. No reservations, no speeches, no grand announcement—just ten years acknowledged in a way that felt like theirs.


On the morning of their tenth anniversary, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three tabs competing for his attention: a mountain cabin, a downtown hotel, and the website for the Italian restaurant where they’d had their first date.

They had lived together for seven years in a small house outside Columbus, Ohio. Marriage came up occasionally, usually when relatives asked, but neither felt an urgent need to change what already worked.

“I thought we agreed not to spend too much,” Lena said, pouring coffee.

“We agreed not to buy each other expensive gifts,” Marcus replied. “Experiences were not specifically addressed.”

She sat across from him. The cabin looked peaceful, but it required a four-hour drive. The hotel had a rooftop bar, though the forecast called for rain. The restaurant was familiar and affordable, but Lena worried it would feel ordinary.

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

Marcus closed the laptop. “Honestly? The first apartment. The terrible yellow kitchen. Eating takeout on the floor because we didn’t own a table.”

Lena smiled. “And your neighbor playing drums at midnight.”

“He was committed to his art.”

They decided to recreate their first evening living together. On Saturday, they ordered noodles from the same local chain, though their original location had closed. Marcus moved the coffee table aside and spread a blanket on the living-room floor. Lena found an old playlist on her phone, full of songs they had once played constantly.

Before dinner, they drove past their former apartment building. The yellow kitchen was visible through a second-floor window, now painted gray. They stayed in the car, laughing about the broken radiator and the time Lena had dropped her keys down the stairwell.

Back home, Marcus produced a small photo album. Lena had made one too, though hers included handwritten captions and a blank final page.

“For year eleven,” she said.

They ate on the floor while rain tapped against the windows. It wasn’t glamorous, but it felt accurate: a celebration built from shared decisions, old jokes, and the home they had chosen together.


On the first Saturday in October, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three browser tabs labeled “cabins,” “concert tickets,” and “restaurants.”

“You’re planning something,” she said.

Marcus closed the laptop halfway. “I’m trying to. Ten years deserves more than takeout.”

Their anniversary marked the night they had met at a friend’s crowded housewarming in Chicago. They weren’t married, though they had discussed it without reaching a decision. Still, they had built a life together: a brick bungalow, a shared savings account, two aging bicycles, and a stubborn orange cat named Milton.

Lena poured coffee and sat across from him. “I don’t want you to plan the whole thing.”

“Good,” Marcus said. “Because the cabin has a two-night minimum, the concert seats are terrible, and the restaurant wants a deposit.”

They spent the morning comparing ideas. Marcus wanted to leave town. Lena wanted to stay close because her mother was recovering from surgery. They briefly argued when he suggested postponing the celebration.

“It’s not about the exact date,” he said.

“It is a little,” Lena replied. “We’ve let work and family push everything else aside this year.”

After a quiet minute, Marcus nodded. “Then we protect the day.”

They decided to recreate parts of their first year together. On the anniversary morning, they would ride their bikes along the lakefront, weather permitting. For dinner, they would cook the mushroom pasta they had once attempted in a tiny apartment kitchen, when Marcus had burned the sauce and Lena had insisted it was still edible. Then they would invite the friends from that old housewarming for dessert.

Marcus added one surprise: he reserved a room at a small downtown hotel so they could spend the night away from laundry, home repairs, and Milton’s 5:00 a.m. demands.

Lena approved the plan, then opened a blank document.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“A list,” she said. “Ten things we want to do in the next ten years.”

Marcus moved his chair beside hers. Together, they began with number one: keep choosing the day.


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

“Ten years,” he said, writing the number at the top. “That feels like it should involve more than takeout.”

They had met at a friend’s game night in Chicago, moved in together four years later, and eventually bought their narrow brick townhouse in Milwaukee. They had never married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony would make their partnership more real. Still, their tenth anniversary seemed worth marking.

Lena sat across from him. “We could finally go to New Orleans.”

Marcus glanced toward the refrigerator, where a plumber’s estimate was held under a magnet. “We could, if we don’t mind showering in the basement for another year.”

She laughed. Their upstairs bathroom had been leaking since August. Travel would mean postponing repairs; repairs would mean celebrating with a functional drain.

They spent the morning comparing hotel prices, renovation costs, and their available vacation days. Marcus favored a long weekend away. Lena wanted something lasting, though she admitted that grout was not especially romantic.

By lunchtime, they had reached a compromise. They would hire the plumber, then take the train to Chicago for one night. It was where they had met, and close enough to keep the trip affordable.

On their anniversary, they checked into a modest hotel near the river. They walked through their old neighborhood, now crowded with cafés they didn’t recognize, and found the apartment building where Lena had once lived. That evening, they bought tickets to a small comedy show, then ate noodles at the same restaurant where they’d had their third date.

Marcus raised his glass. “To ten years, one house, and eventually one bathroom that doesn’t drip into the kitchen.”

Lena touched her glass to his. “And to making practical decisions slightly less practical.”

The next morning, on the train home, they shared earbuds and looked through old photographs. Their anniversary had not been extravagant, but it felt like them: negotiated, imperfect, and chosen together.


On a rainy Thursday evening in Portland, Maya stood at the kitchen counter sorting mail while Eric stirred a pot of tomato soup. Their tenth anniversary was two weeks away—not a wedding anniversary, since they had never married, but ten years since their first date at a cramped noodle shop downtown.

“We should do something bigger than takeout this year,” Maya said, opening the electric bill.

Eric lowered the heat. “I looked at cabins near Mount Hood. Most are booked, but there’s one with a fireplace.”

Maya smiled, then hesitated. They had recently replaced the roof on the bungalow they shared, and the expense still showed on their credit card statement. “How much?”

When he told her, she winced. Eric nodded, unsurprised. He had done the same when he saw the price.

They carried their bowls to the dining table, where they began listing possibilities on the back of an envelope: the cabin, dinner at an expensive restaurant, a day trip to the coast, or a party at home. Eric liked the coast, but Maya pointed out that November weather could mean six hours in the car for twenty minutes on a windy beach. Maya liked the party idea, though Eric admitted he wanted part of the day to belong only to them.

Eventually, they built a plan that felt like both of theirs. On Saturday morning, they would return to the neighborhood where they had first met and eat lunch at the same noodle shop, assuming it was still there. Afterward, they would visit the used bookstore where Eric had bought Maya a poetry collection on their third date. In the evening, they would host a small potluck at home with the friends who had watched their relationship grow.

“And no gifts,” Maya said.

“One gift,” Eric countered. “Something under twenty dollars.”

She considered this. “Fine. But the roof does not count.”

On their anniversary, the noodle shop was busier and brighter than they remembered. They shared dumplings, argued affectionately about who had been late on their first date, and took a photograph outside. That night, surrounded by friends in their warm, slightly leaky bungalow, they agreed the celebration felt appropriately theirs: practical, crowded, and full of history.


On the morning of their tenth anniversary, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen counter, comparing restaurant menus on his laptop. They had lived together in their small Minneapolis bungalow for six years, long enough that celebrating at home risked feeling like any other Tuesday.

“I thought we could go somewhere fancy,” Daniel said. “There’s a place downtown with a tasting menu.”

Maya poured coffee and looked at the prices. “That’s half the cost of fixing the porch steps.”

“Romantic,” he said, smiling. “Nothing says ten years like pressure-treated lumber.”

They had never married, partly because neither felt strongly about it and partly because life kept supplying more immediate decisions: moving in together, changing jobs, caring for Maya’s mother after surgery, adopting their elderly cat, Pepper. Still, ten years felt significant. They wanted to honor it without pretending to be people who enjoyed white tablecloths and tiny portions.

That evening, they sat on the porch with notebooks. Maya suggested returning to the lakeside town where they had taken their first trip. Daniel liked the idea but worried about leaving Pepper overnight. He proposed a day trip instead: breakfast at the same diner, a walk by the lake, then home before dark.

“And we could finally replace these steps,” Maya said, nudging a loose board with her shoe.

“On our anniversary?”

“The day after. We’re not animals.”

They laughed, and the plan settled into place. On Saturday, they drove two hours north, sharing a thermos of coffee and arguing amiably over music. At the diner, they ordered pancakes and took a photograph in the same booth they had occupied a decade earlier. They walked along the windy shore, exchanged handwritten letters, and bought a small ceramic bowl from a local shop.

Back home, they fed Pepper and opened a bottle of sparkling wine. Maya placed the bowl on the kitchen table and filled it with their spare keys.

“To ten years,” Daniel said.

“And to safe porch steps,” Maya added.

They clinked glasses, pleased that the day felt not grand, but unmistakably theirs.


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

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Our ten-year anniversary,” he said. “I’m trying not to suggest dinner at the same Italian place again.”

They had lived together in Columbus, Ohio, for six years, in a narrow brick house with creaky floors and a maple tree that dropped leaves faster than they could rake them. They weren’t married, though relatives occasionally asked when that might change. To Maya and Daniel, ten years together felt important on its own.

Maya sat across from him. His list included a weekend in Chicago, a cabin in Hocking Hills, and “fancy restaurant, not the usual one.”

She added, “Stay home and fix the back steps.”

Daniel frowned. “That doesn’t sound romantic.”

“It would be romantic not to twist my ankle carrying groceries.”

They laughed, but money was part of the decision. Their water heater had been replaced in August, and Maya had recently reduced her hours at the library to finish a certification program. A big trip would mean using savings they had promised not to touch.

Daniel tapped the cabin option. “One night? We could hike, make dinner, turn off our phones.”

Maya considered it. “And on the actual date, we do something here.”

Together, they planned a compromise. They booked a modest cabin for the following weekend, choosing one with a kitchen instead of a hot tub. For the anniversary itself, they would recreate their first date: tacos from a food truck, followed by a walk along the river. Daniel suggested printing ten photographs, one from each year. Maya offered to write captions on the backs.

That evening, they carried folding chairs into the yard and watched the maple leaves drift down.

“Ten years,” Daniel said.

Maya leaned against him. “And we finally made a plan without arguing.”

“We argued about the hot tub.”

“That was a discussion.”

He raised his mug. “To ten years of discussions.”

She clinked hers against it, already thinking about which photographs to choose.


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

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

Maya sat across from him in the small Denver bungalow they had bought together four years earlier. The house was still quiet except for the furnace clicking on. She studied the list.

“A party sounds fun,” she said, “but I don’t want to spend our anniversary refilling chip bowls.”

Daniel crossed it out. “Trip?”

They had talked about New Orleans, but airfare had climbed, and their elderly dog, Pepper, needed medication twice a day. Maya opened her laptop anyway. Daniel checked hotel prices while she searched for pet sitters. After twenty minutes, they exchanged the same doubtful look.

“We could force it,” Daniel said.

“But then we’d spend the whole weekend calculating what it cost,” Maya replied.

They took their coffee onto the porch. Across the street, a neighbor raked yellow leaves into a pile. Maya remembered their first date: a rainy walk around a lake, followed by grilled cheese in a crowded diner. Daniel remembered that she had beaten him at a trivia machine while insisting she was terrible at trivia.

“What if we stay here?” he asked. “Not just do nothing. Re-create the day.”

Together they built a plan. On Friday evening, they would walk around the same lake, rain or shine. At home, Daniel would make grilled cheese, and Maya would write trivia questions about their decade together. On Saturday, they would plant a maple tree in the backyard—something lasting, but not a wedding symbol neither of them wanted.

That afternoon they drove to a nursery and argued cheerfully over two young maples. Maya preferred the taller one; Daniel liked the crooked tree with brighter leaves.

“It has character,” he said.

“It leans.”

“So does the garage.”

They bought the crooked one. On the drive home, Pepper asleep between them, Maya rested her hand on Daniel’s arm.

Ten years, they decided, did not need to look impressive from outside. It only needed to feel like theirs.


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

“Ten years,” he said, tapping the page. “We should do something bigger than takeout.”

They had been together since graduate school and had shared the little blue house in Ohio for six years. They weren’t married, partly from inertia and partly because neither of them felt a ceremony would make their life more real. Still, the anniversary mattered. It marked the rainy night when Ben had finally asked whether their third date was, in fact, a date.

Maya sat across from him. “What are the columns?”

“Practical, romantic, and ridiculous.”

Under practical, Ben had written *new dishwasher*. Under romantic: *weekend in Chicago*. Under ridiculous: *rent a hot-air balloon*.

“The dishwasher is not an anniversary celebration,” Maya said.

“It would improve our relationship.”

She laughed, then added *back to Madison* under romantic. They had met there, in a crowded campus bookstore. A trip sounded meaningful, but after checking hotel prices and their work schedules, they admitted it would feel rushed.

For the next hour, they negotiated the way they handled most shared decisions: Ben proposed ambitious plans, Maya asked what they would actually enjoy, and both revised their answers. Eventually, Maya suggested staying home and recreating their first date—cheap Thai food, a used bookstore, and a walk by the river.

Ben considered it. “Can we add one ridiculous thing?”

On their anniversary, they ordered curry from the neighborhood restaurant, then exchanged books they had secretly chosen for each other at a secondhand shop. After dinner, Ben led Maya into the backyard, where he had strung lights between the maple tree and the garage. A small projector cast their old photographs onto a bedsheet.

They sat under a blanket, laughing at obsolete haircuts and apartments they had hated. When the final picture faded, Maya raised her glass.

“To ten years,” she said.

“And to the dishwasher arriving Tuesday,” Ben replied.

She leaned against him. It wasn’t grand, but it felt like them: practical, romantic, and just ridiculous enough.


On a rainy Thursday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with two laptops open and a legal pad covered in crossed-out ideas.

“Our tenth anniversary is in three weeks,” he said. “Apparently every hotel within two hundred miles has decided it’s peak season.”

Maya set down the grocery bags and studied the list. A cabin in Vermont was circled, then crossed out. So was a concert in Boston. At the bottom, Daniel had written: *Fancy dinner? Too predictable?*

They had been together for ten years and had shared their small Massachusetts house for six. They weren’t married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony would make their commitment more real. Still, ten years seemed worth marking.

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

Daniel looked doubtful. “You mean order Thai food and watch television?”

“No. I mean stay here on purpose.”

Over dinner, they made a plan together. They would take Friday off, silence their phones, and revisit the places that had shaped their relationship: the coffee shop where they met, the public garden where they first said “I love you,” and the hardware store where they had argued for forty minutes over paint colors after buying the house.

On the anniversary morning, they drove into town with travel mugs and an old playlist. The coffee shop had changed owners, but the corner table was still there. At the garden, Daniel produced a folded sheet of paper.

“I wrote down ten things I’m grateful for,” he said, embarrassed.

Maya laughed, then pulled an envelope from her coat. “I did the same thing.”

That evening, they cooked pasta at home and opened a bottle they had saved from their first trip to California. They read their lists aloud, including the ordinary things: Daniel always filling the gas tank, Maya remembering his mother’s birthday, the way they apologized after bad arguments.

Before bed, they planted a young maple tree in the backyard. It was not a grand gesture, and they knew it might not survive the winter. But they watered it together anyway, then stood in the cold, muddy and content, imagining how tall it might be by their twentieth anniversary.


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

“Our tenth anniversary is in three weeks,” he said. “We should probably decide whether we’re doing something before everything gets booked.”

Lena sat across from him. They had lived together in their small Ohio bungalow for six years, long enough that the table carried scratches from holiday dinners, home-repair projects, and Marcus’s habit of dropping his keys in the same spot.

They agreed on a budget first. A weekend in Chicago sounded exciting, but hotel prices were high, and their furnace had started making an ominous rattle. Lena suggested a fancy restaurant downtown. Marcus liked the idea, though he admitted that sitting through a formal dinner didn’t feel much like them.

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

“Got tacos and walked by the river,” Lena said. “Then you missed the exit and drove us forty minutes in the wrong direction.”

“You said you liked the scenic route.”

“I was being polite.”

They laughed, and the tension around making the anniversary “important enough” eased.

By the time their coffee was cold, they had a plan. On Saturday morning, they would drive to the state park where they had taken their first trip together. They would hike the easy lakeside trail, rent a cabin for one night, and bring ingredients for tacos. They also decided to exchange letters—not gifts—about what they remembered from the past ten years and what they hoped for next.

Three weeks later, rain followed them to the park. The trail turned muddy, and Marcus forgot the cilantro. Still, they cooked together in the cabin’s cramped kitchen, bumping elbows and arguing cheerfully over how much hot sauce to use.

After dinner, Lena read her letter first. Marcus listened without interrupting. Then he read his, his voice unsteady near the end.

Outside, rain tapped the windows. Their anniversary was neither grand nor perfect, but it felt honest: a day shaped by both of them, honoring the life they had chosen and continued to choose together.


On the first Saturday in October, Lena found Marcus at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three restaurant menus spread around his coffee mug.

“What’s all this?” she asked, setting down the groceries.

“Ten years next Thursday,” he said. “I thought we should do something bigger than takeout.”

They had never agreed on the exact date their relationship began. Lena favored the night they drove from Philadelphia to the Jersey Shore and talked until sunrise. Marcus counted from the following week, when she introduced him as her boyfriend. Years ago, they had compromised on October 12.

Lena studied the menus. One restaurant offered a rooftop tasting menu; another required jackets. “These are expensive.”

“I know.” Marcus closed the laptop. “But ten years feels important.”

Their house needed a new water heater, and Lena had recently reduced her hours at the clinic to finish a certification program. They could afford dinner, but not without worrying about it afterward.

She unpacked vegetables while Marcus put away the milk. “What if we went back to the shore?” she suggested. “Just for the day.”

“In October?”

“That was the point the first time.”

Marcus smiled. “The motel with the broken ice machine?”

“The one we can’t believe we slept in.”

They checked prices together and found the motel had been renovated into a boutique hotel neither of them wanted to pay for. Instead, they booked one night at a modest inn several blocks from the beach. Marcus reserved a table at a small seafood place, and Lena offered to pack breakfast so they could watch the sunrise without buying twelve-dollar coffee.

On Thursday evening, they exchanged no jewelry and made no announcements. They drove east with a thermos between them, arguing mildly about directions even though the phone was navigating.

At dinner, Marcus raised his glass. “To ten years, plus or minus a week.”

Lena touched her glass to his. “And to the water heater surviving another month.”

The next morning, wrapped in the same blanket on the cold sand, they watched the sky turn pink. Neither said much. The quiet felt less like an absence than something they had built together.


On a rainy Thursday evening in Portland, Maya stood at the kitchen counter sorting mail while Daniel stirred soup on the stove. Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away, and neither of them had made plans.

“We should probably talk about it,” Maya said, holding up a postcard advertising a coastal hotel. “Ten years feels too important for takeout on the couch.”

Daniel lowered the heat. “I was thinking the same thing. But the car needs brakes, and that hotel is probably four hundred dollars a night.”

They had shared the small bungalow for six years, long enough to know that money conversations went better when neither person pretended not to care. Maya wanted the anniversary to feel special. Daniel wanted that too, but he worried about putting it on a credit card.

They carried their bowls to the table and opened a calendar between them. Maya suggested a weekend at the coast. Daniel proposed cooking the meal they had eaten on their first date, then going to the neighborhood theater. Neither idea seemed quite right on its own.

“What if we take Friday off?” Daniel asked. “We could drive to the beach in the morning, hike, and come home that night.”

Maya considered it. “And on Saturday, we invite the people who’ve known us the longest. Nothing huge. Just dinner in the backyard.”

Daniel smiled. “Your sister will bring that embarrassing photo album.”

“That’s part of the deal.”

They made a list together: request vacation time, check the weather, borrow folding chairs, order a small cake from the bakery where they bought birthday pastries. Maya added sparkling wine. Daniel added a backup plan in case of rain.

On their anniversary, the coast was cold and windy, but the clouds lifted by noon. They walked along the sand, sharing coffee from a thermos, and talked about the apartments, jobs, losses, and ordinary mornings that had filled ten years.

The next evening, under strings of borrowed lights, Daniel raised his glass. Maya took his free hand before he spoke. Their celebration wasn’t extravagant, but it felt accurate: chosen together, practical, warm, and full of people who understood what they had built.


On the morning of their tenth anniversary, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three hotel tabs competing for his attention.

“I thought we agreed not to spend a fortune,” she said, setting down two mugs of coffee.

“We agreed to discuss not spending a fortune,” Daniel replied. “That’s different.”

They had lived together in Columbus, Ohio, for seven years, long enough to own a mismatched collection of furniture, share a mortgage, and know exactly which floorboard creaked outside the bedroom. They weren’t married and didn’t plan to be, but ten years still felt worth marking.

Maya pulled up a chair. A weekend in Chicago sounded exciting, but after replacing the water heater in March, the cost made her uneasy. Daniel admitted he had the same concern. His second idea—a large party in their backyard—felt wrong for another reason.

“We’d spend the whole night checking the grill and refilling ice,” Maya said.

“And cleaning for two days beforehand,” Daniel added.

They sat quietly, drinking coffee. Then Maya remembered the tiny state-park cabin where they had celebrated their first anniversary. It had rained all weekend. They had played cards, burned a frozen pizza, and taken a blurry photograph on the porch.

Daniel searched for the park. The original cabin had been renovated, but another one nearby was available for a single night. They could afford it without touching their savings.

“Cabin, hiking, terrible pizza?” he asked.

“Better pizza,” Maya said. “We’ve grown.”

They booked the cabin together, then made one more plan. On the anniversary morning, they would invite a few close friends to their house for brunch—nothing elaborate, just bagels, fruit, and the good coffee Daniel usually saved for holidays. Afterward, they would drive to the park.

That evening, Maya found the old porch photo in a desk drawer. Daniel placed it on the refrigerator beside the reservation confirmation.

It wasn’t a grand celebration, but it suited the life they had built: practical, shared, and quietly worth choosing again.


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

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

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

They had been together for a decade and had shared their small house outside Columbus, Ohio, for six years. They weren’t married, partly from inertia and partly because neither felt a ceremony was necessary. Still, ten years seemed worth marking.

Maya unpacked apples while Daniel showed her a cabin near Hocking Hills. It had a hot tub, a fireplace, and a two-night minimum that cost nearly as much as their monthly mortgage.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, “but our water heater is making that noise again.”

Daniel closed the tab. “Very romantic.”

They considered a concert in Cleveland, but Maya had an early shift the next morning. A new restaurant downtown offered a tasting menu, though Daniel admitted he would probably still want pizza afterward.

For several minutes, they sat quietly. Their dog, Penny, rested her chin on Maya’s knee.

“What if we stay here?” Maya said. “Not like an ordinary night. We could recreate our first date.”

Their first date had been at a cheap diner, followed by a walk along the Scioto Mile in light rain. Daniel smiled. “I can make grilled cheese and terrible coffee.”

“And we’ll walk Penny by the river.”

They agreed to put the money they would have spent on the cabin toward replacing the water heater and buying one indulgence: a sturdy wooden bench for the backyard, where they drank coffee most mornings.

On the anniversary, Daniel cooked while Maya found the old playlist they had listened to in his car ten years earlier. After dinner, they walked beside the river under umbrellas. Back home, they sat together on the new bench, Penny between them, and toasted with grocery-store champagne.

It wasn’t extravagant, but it felt accurate—a celebration of the life they had actually built.


On the first Saturday in October, Maya found Daniel at the kitchen table with his laptop open and three browser tabs competing for his attention.

“Don’t tell me,” she said, setting down the grocery bags. “You’re planning something for the tenth.”

Daniel closed the laptop halfway. “I was trying to. Everything romantic within two hours costs as much as our water heater.”

Their anniversary marked eight years since their first date, though they had lived together in their small Ohio bungalow for only three. They weren’t married, and neither felt an urgent need to be, but the date mattered to them. It had become a private holiday, usually celebrated with dinner out and a long argument over who got to pay.

Maya unpacked apples and pasta. “We could skip the expensive part.”

“And do what?”

She glanced around the kitchen. The cabinet doors needed paint, a stack of mail leaned against the toaster, and their dog had left muddy paw prints by the back door. None of it looked romantic, exactly, but it looked like their life.

“What if we stay home,” she said, “and cook everything from our first date?”

Daniel laughed. “The first date where you ordered mushroom pizza and I pretended to like mushrooms?”

“You ate four slices.”

“I was trying to impress you.”

They made a plan together. Daniel would find the old independent movie they had seen that night. Maya would order pizza from the same neighborhood shop, if it still existed. They would each choose one photograph from every year they had been together and explain why it mattered.

On the anniversary, they strung warm lights across the living room and spread the photographs on the coffee table. Some were flattering; most were not. There were road trips, hospital waiting rooms, birthdays, and one picture of them exhausted on the day they moved in.

Halfway through the movie, Daniel reached for a mushroom slice.

“Still pretending?” Maya asked.

He shook his head. “No. I guess people change.”

She leaned against him, looking at the familiar room they had chosen and maintained together.

“Good anniversary?” he asked.

Maya smiled. “Ours.”


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

“Is that a budget or a warning?” she asked.

“Both, possibly.”

They had met ten years earlier at a friend’s game night in Ohio and had shared a small house outside Columbus for six. They weren’t married, mostly because neither felt strongly about it, but the anniversary mattered. It marked the night Marcus had walked Lena home in the rain, carrying a broken umbrella over both of them.

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

Marcus tapped the legal pad. “I was thinking we finally fix the back deck.”

“That is not an anniversary.”

“It could be. We’d remember it every time we didn’t fall through a board.”

She laughed, then grew quiet. Airfare had climbed, and their elderly dog, Pepper, needed daily medication. A trip would require a sitter they trusted. Still, Lena didn’t want the date to disappear into errands and home repairs.

Marcus turned the pad around. Beneath his practical notes, he had listed other ideas: dinner at the restaurant where they’d had their first real date, a night at a downtown hotel, and a walk along the river.

“You already planned all that?” she asked.

“I planned options. You’re the one who taught me that options are romantic.”

Together, they settled on one night downtown. Lena booked a room in a renovated hotel, using points from work travel. Marcus called the restaurant and reserved the corner table. They asked their neighbor to give Pepper his evening pill.

On the anniversary, rain swept across the city. After dinner, they walked beneath one umbrella toward the river, their shoulders getting wet.

“At least this one isn’t broken,” Marcus said.

Lena slipped her hand into his coat pocket. “It would be more authentic if it were.”

The next morning, they returned home, changed into old clothes, and measured the deck. The trip had marked the past. Choosing boards together, Lena thought, felt like marking the future.


On the first Sunday in October, Maya found Ben at the kitchen table comparing hotel rates on his laptop. Their tenth anniversary was two weeks away, and for months they had talked about “doing something big.”

“I found a place in Maine,” he said. “Ocean view, fireplace, breakfast included.”

Maya leaned over his shoulder. The room looked beautiful, but the three-night total made her wince. Their furnace had started rattling again, and the mechanic had warned them that repairs might not be cheap.

“I want to celebrate,” she said, sitting across from him. “I just don’t want to spend the whole trip worrying about the bill.”

Ben closed the laptop. He was disappointed, but mostly relieved she had said it first. “So what would feel special?”

They made coffee and started a list. A fancy restaurant downtown. A concert. A weekend in a nearby state park. Cooking the meal from their first date, though neither of them remembered exactly what they had eaten. After some debate, they settled on a day trip to the small town where they had met at a friend’s barbecue, followed by dinner at home.

On the anniversary, Ben packed sandwiches and a thermos while Maya loaded the car with a blanket and an old photo album. They walked along the river, visited the used bookstore they once frequented, and laughed when they discovered the barbecue house had become a tax office.

Back home, they cooked pasta together, bumping elbows in their narrow kitchen. Ben opened a bottle of wine they had been saving, and Maya placed ten printed photographs along the mantel—one from each year.

After dinner, they sat on the porch under a borrowed patio heater. They talked about the house, their jobs, and whether they might finally take that Maine trip the following spring.

“It wasn’t big,” Ben said, looking through the lit window at the photographs.

Maya rested her head on his shoulder. “Ten years is big.”

He took her hand. For once, neither of them felt the need to plan what came next.


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

“Very romantic,” she said, sitting across from him.

Their tenth anniversary was three weeks away. They had never married, though they had shared the same narrow townhouse outside Baltimore for seven years, along with a stubborn cat and a mortgage in both their names. Usually they celebrated with dinner, but ten years felt too important for their standard reservation at the Italian place downtown.

Ben tapped the “Trip” column. “Cabin in West Virginia. Two nights. Fireplace.”

Maya glanced at the estimated cost. “And a four-hour drive on Friday after work.”

“Fair point.”

She pointed to “Party.” “What if we invite everyone who helped us get this far? Your sister introduced us. Luis helped us move twice. My parents gave us the down payment.”

Ben smiled. “That sounds like a wedding reception.”

“Without a wedding.”

They laughed, but the idea made Maya uneasy. Their relationship had never needed a ceremony to feel serious, yet she did not want the anniversary to become a public explanation of their choices.

Ben seemed to notice. He turned the page over. “What do you actually want?”

She looked around the kitchen they had painted together, badly, during their first summer in the house. “I want one day that feels like ours. Not something impressive.”

Together, they made a new plan. On the morning of their anniversary, they would walk the trail where they had gone on their first date. Afterward, they would buy pastries from the bakery they loved and spend the afternoon planting a dogwood tree in the backyard. In the evening, they would cook dinner, open the bottle of wine Ben had been saving, and each write a letter about the next ten years.

“A tree and paperwork,” Maya said. “Still very romantic.”

Ben raised his mug. “I know what you like.”

Three weeks later, they stood beside the newly planted dogwood, muddy and tired. Maya leaned against him while Ben took a picture. It was not a grand celebration, but it belonged entirely to them.