They had married young, with borrowed clothes, a secondhand ring, and an almost foolish certainty that love would be enough. On their wedding night, he’d promised her three small things: to always make her laugh, to never walk out mid-argument, and to keep choosing her, especially on the days she was hardest to love. Time tested those promises with hospital corridors, unpaid bills, and the dull ache of ordinary disappointments, yet she slowly realized he had kept every one.
At their golden anniversary, surrounded by noisy grandchildren and flickering candles, she admitted she’d once feared his vows were too simple, too light for a lifetime. He only smiled, sliding a crumpled “honey-do” list across the table, a fresh line added at the bottom: “Still choosing you.” Laughter burst around them, but her tears told the truth. Humor hadn’t minimized their love; it had deepened it, turning daily choices into a quiet, enduring forever.
