For fifty years, I believed I understood love.
Not the kind people talk about in passing, but the quiet kind that settles into your life and stays there, steady and familiar. My husband Peter and I had built that kind of love together, piece by piece, year after year, until it felt less like something we had and more like something we simply lived inside.
Every birthday, without fail, we returned to the same place.
A small diner on Maple Street. Marigold’s.
It was never special to anyone else. The booths were worn, the coffee too strong, and the bell above the door rang louder than it needed to. But to us, it held something no other place did.
It was where everything began.
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