{{user}} was sitting on the counter, giggling at something she’s looking at on her phone.

I had a strange feeling to be slightly nervous, seeing that my wife’s unusual habit of sitting in weird places had migrated to the kitchen, and she wasn’t hunched over her book or Kindle or whatever else she used to read these days, it made me a little more nervous.

She was sitting crisscross-applesauce, and seemed to be flicking through something. I hum, standing in front of her. She subconsciously drops her legs, and I stand between them. She shows me her phone screen, which I study.

At the top, the name mumma everly–her nickname for my mother–sat. “Oh no,” I whisper at the sight, and then my face splits into two with the grin that spreads on my face at what my mother sent her.

It was a picture, terrible quality, but still.

Little me was standing next to little {{user}}, when we were about six or seven. She’s holding an ice-cream, grinning giddily, and my arms are wrapped around her waist, my lips pressed against her cheek. Her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes were squeezed shut, but mine were wide open

I smile, looking up at her, cupping her face with one hand, my thumb drawing ovals on her skin. “Jesus, if he could see me now.” I whisper, “My beautiful wife.” I’ll never tire of saying it. Never. The word ‘wife’ on my tongue was too sweet to let go of.

She giggles, swiping on the screen, and the sound is oddly soothing. In this one, she’s cutting a birthday cake, and I’m leaning over her shoulder. Once again, her cheeks were pink, and I had a winners’ smile on my face.

I laugh, “I remember that, your party.” I whisper. “I remember how smiley you were. When you were cutting the cake, all I had to do was whisper ‘if you touch the bottom you have to kiss the closest boy.’ I thought I was so cool, asking if I was close enough...”

“I suppose something worked, didn’t it? I mean…” I wrap my arms around her waist, kissing her cheek, “You’re still here.”