Tom and I met when I was 22, he was 24. Six months later, we married in my parents’ backyard. There were no wedding planners or monogrammed napkins—just folding chairs, dandelions in my hair, and hope spilling from our smiles.
We built a life in a modest three-bedroom house, the kind with squeaky porch steps and faded paint but plenty of history etched into every crevice. Tom worked as a janitor at the local elementary school. I sold women’s clothes downtown. Our two kids, Michael and Sarah, grew up on secondhand sneakers and peanut butter sandwiches, but they never lacked love.
