Warren stayed home from work to celebrate. I told him, it seemed too long. Nineteen years seemed too long, like my life had been put on fast forward and thrown me from my youth to middle age twice as fast as it should have. As I had expected.
We visited the garden centre and looked at the pretty things. He sprayed rose water on himself for reasons that remain unfathomable; he didn't expect it to be quite that strong. We bought a lavender for the garden by the stairs, a pink lavender. I liked the irony.
All five of us saw The Hobbit. So much better in two dimensions than three. I developed a small crush on more than one mythological creature, but then I always do. Mythological creatures in beautiful clothes, who can sing, and wield swords, and would die in defending anybody's honour, are hard not to love. Just a little bit. We ate food we'd smuggled into the theatre, and had to sit in the second to front row. There is no other way I'd rather have spent the afternoon.
Dinner is in the oven and everyone has scattered to their various rooms, reading, or listening to music, or playing games. Warren has just bought home the milk I forgot. He's making me a cup of tea, or more precisely I am about to ask him to and know he'll say yes. I think of a word or phrase I can say about this family of ours, and find only this: at this moment in time, there is peace here.