Twenty years ago (give or take a few days) a sixteen-year-old boy invited my sixteen-year-old self to go to a birthday party for his grandfather and cousin. We’d dated a few times before that, but this was the first time we held hands and the first time we were Going Out.
Twenty years later that same boy, now a wonderful man, is taking me out to dinner.
We’ve been together for more than half our lives, more than our entire adult lives, and all but three and a half years of my sister’s life. That’s a damn long time.
Our relationship is more hard work than luck, more stubbornness than providence. Still, I am grateful for the opportunity to be on this man’s arm, living this life, every day.