Today, 8 years ago, Alex and I got married. I loved everything about that day, it was perfect, I was marrying the love of my life, my best friend, my partner in success, and I was madly in love with him. Today, I wish I felt like writing cheesy stuff like, “I love you like that day”, “you make me so happy”, “I’m still in love with you”. None of that is true.
The last year and a half have been hard on our relationship. We’ve struggled. The anchor of sleep deprivation sank us right to the bottom, and we’re still trying to get back up.
But that’s what I love about us: we’re still trying. We take one step forward and two backwards, but we try. While I was pregnant with Emily, a couple came to buy the sofa we were selling. They noticed the age gap between Oliver and “the belly”, and told us:
“It’ll be hard, but if you make it through the first year together, you’ll never separate”.
Those words stuck with me, and somehow deep inside I feel they were right. When I’m upset at him, when I don’t feel valued, when I feel annoyed, there’s always one constant: after all, when I think about my future I still see myself sitting with him on that bench in front of the sea, chatting about everything and nothing. We’ll make it there.
PS. Today Alex told me: “Happy anniversary, baby. You’re still as beautiful as 8 years ago. Actually, you’re more beautiful because I like voluptuous women”. Is he saying I’m fatter? 🤔
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