We met when we were 25, two fresh-faced young adults who loved books and movies and sleeping in.
We’d both known love and heartbreak.
Our first date was mere weeks before his 26th birthday, and that was when the tumble into love began. I had learned to be cautious with my heart. I felt that I was too flawed to love and to be loved. But there was something about him that touched something in me and I wasn’t afraid to show him myself.
So I did, and our love story began. And the day after he turned 26, we laid together in his bed as the sky darkened and I thought to myself, “I love him. This is it.” And he turned to me and said, “I love you.”
Those words have passed between us hundreds of times since. They’re what I return to when I feel lost. He is my lighthouse. Forever, him.
With each passing year, I’ve watched him grow and change from my adoring boyfriend who stayed up late with me every night so we could watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer, to my long-suffering fiance who listened to me obsess over wedding details, to my supportive husband who held me while I cried over how much I hated my job. And then I watched as he evolved into a daddy, the father of my children, and my heart breaks constantly with joy watching him love them, watching them love him.
He’s 33 years old today. I am so proud of him. And I’m just so amazed at the person he’s become – but at the same time, I’m not surprised at all. He’s always been himself.
Happy birthday, Roy. (Forever, you.)