My Husband Laughed at the Anniversary Dinner I Spe…

Cream-colored linens, freshly ironed that afternoon. Brass bowls low enough not to block conversation, filled with eucalyptus I’d personally picked out at the Saturday market. The beeswax candles—those specific ones that smelled like honey and bergamot—burned in tall, simple holders, casting golden light over the china we’d registered for seven years ago and used exactly four times.

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All my insistence. All his complaints about it being “too fancy for a random Tuesday.”

Except tonight wasn’t random. Tonight was our seventh anniversary.

“It’s our anniversary,” I said quietly. My arms had started to shake from the weight of the dish, but my voice came out steady. Small mercies.