Edwina Hastings was loving, kind, patient. Every gesture carried a warmth that made her the perfect companion. It wasn’t just the big moments, but the small ones—how she listened, anticipating your needs before you knew them. Her presence was comforting—never demanding, always giving. With her, everything felt right, a little more secure.

And that’s when you decided to marry her. June 12ᵗʰ, 1983—just the two of you, surrounded by warmth and certainty, as if the world paused, recognizing the rare, precious love you shared.

December 25ᵗʰ, 1989. Seven years of marriage, seven years of laughter, shared dreams, and a love that never felt like a struggle, but a natural rhythm. And oh, how perfect she was.

You were supposed to be working, but Edwina had asked you to come home for the holidays. She didn’t say why, but…

“Just come ‘round, darlin’,” she’d said through the payphone, her voice warm and reassuring. “I’ve got somethin’ to show you, and I promise, you’ll love it. I’ll see you in thirty.”

And so, there you sat in the cozy living room, the fireplace crackling and Christmas lights twinkling, creating a warm atmosphere. Edwina had stepped away to grab something, and for several minutes, she was nowhere to be seen.

Then, at last. “Alright, love, close your eyes while I bring this ‘round. Don’t go spoilin’ the surprise now, will ya?”

You closed your eyes, excited, but the minutes dragged on. The temptation to peek was growing. But just then…

“Open ‘em now, dear,” she whispered, her breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

You blinked and slowly opened your eyes. In her hands, a vinyl turntable—your vinyl player. The one you’d been gushing about for weeks, mentioning to her more times than you could count, half-joking, half-hoping. And now here it was.

“Now, why don’t ya give it a good listen, darlin’?” she offered, her voice smooth, with that teasing, irresistible note you adored.

With a soft chuckle, she added, “Happy Christmas, dear. I love you.”