Chapter 23
DJ was the light of our lives.
He was at our house at least three days a week.
Emma and Leo both worked.
We were more than happy to babysit.
More than happy.
We fought over who got to hold him first when they dropped him off.
David did build that treehouse.
Bigger and better than the original.
Two stories.
A slide.
A fire pole.
Three flags.
And yes—an enormous secret compartment full of candy.
Leo pretended to be annoyed.
“Dad,” he said. “You’re going to rot his teeth out.”
But I saw him sneaking candy out of there too when he thought no one was looking.
Some things never changed.
DJ’s first word was “Papa.”
Of course it was.
David cried for an hour.
I pretended to be jealous.
But I wasn’t.
Not really.
His second word was “Nana.”
And I cried for two hours.
His first steps were in our backyard.
He was ten months old.
Wobbly.
Unsteady.
He took three steps from Leo to me.
And fell into my arms.
We cheered so loud the neighbors came over to see what was wrong.
That year, we celebrated our twentieth wedding anniversary.
We renewed our vows again.
This time, DJ was the ring bearer.
He was two years old.
He wore a tiny tuxedo.
He carried the rings on a pillow.
And halfway down the aisle, he stopped.
He sat down.
He started playing with the rings.
The whole church laughed.
Leo had to go get him.
He carried him the rest of the way.
It was perfect.
After the ceremony, we danced.
DJ danced between us.
Stepping on our toes.
Spinning in circles.
Laughing.
The photographer got a photo.
The four of us.
Spinning.
Laughing.
Perfect.
That photo hangs on our mantel now.
Right next to the one from Italy.
Right next to the one of Leo’s graduation.
Right next to the one of DJ’s first day of preschool.
Our whole life.
In frames.
That night, after everyone was gone, David and I went up to the roof of our house.
We had a little deck up there.
With chairs.
And a telescope David had bought for his fiftieth birthday.
We sat.
We looked at the stars.
“Twenty years,” David said. “Twenty. Can you believe it?”
“Feels like yesterday,” I said. “And it feels like a lifetime.”
He took my hand.
“Promise me something,” he said.
“Anything.”
“Promise me that no matter what happens,” he said, “we’ll always be us. That we’ll always choose each other. That when we’re old and gray and sitting in rocking chairs on the porch, we’ll still be holding hands. Still laughing. Still in love.”
I turned to look at him.
Fifty years old now.
A little gray at the temples.
A few more lines around his eyes.
But still my David.
Still the man I’d fallen in love with all those years ago.
Still the man who’d chosen me.
Over everything.
Everyone.
“I promise,” I said. “Forever. No matter what.”
He kissed me.
Under the stars.
And I meant it.
Forever was a long time.
May you like
But I’d spend every second of it with him.
Gladly.
