I was nineteen when I married Thomas.
We had no business feeling as hopeful as we did. Our apartment was so small you could stand in the kitchen and touch the fridge, the sink, and the stove without taking a step. The couch had belonged to his cousin. The dining table had a leg that only stayed level if we shoved a folded magazine under it. We counted coins before grocery shopping and split one decent winter coat between us for the first month because payday was still a week away.
But we were happy.
Not the loud kind. Not the dramatic kind people write poems about. Ours was the slow, dependable kind. Thomas packed my lunch when I worked early shifts. I ironed his shirts on Sunday nights. We paid bills late sometimes, but never forgot anniversaries. When our son was born, Thomas cried harder than I did. When our daughter left for college, he stood in her empty room holding one of her old stuffed animals as if he’d forgotten why he walked in there.
That was our marriage. Ordinary in all the ways that matter most.
