It’s 1952, and I’m sitting at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of me. The smell of fresh coffee fills the air. Across from me is Peggy, my wife, her red curls perfectly styled, even this early in the morning. She’s wearing her favorite sleeveless red dress, her strong arms moving gracefully as she butters a piece of toast. Her muscles catch the morning light, a reminder of her early workout. She smiles at me.

“Anything interesting in the paper?” she asks.