I live in the prettiest house — my husband built it for us, and it’s everything I ever dreamed of. It sits out on a stretch of land surrounded by trees, flowers, and mountains, with other farms and houses scattered in the distance. It’s a one-story, modern cottage-style home — simple, charming, and perfectly cozy inside. He let me decorate it exactly how I wanted; he makes the money, and I make the living. Our love story still feels like a dream — young, in love, and built on every small, sweet thing we do for each other. He’s the kind of man who washes my hair, buys me things I say I don’t need (but secretly want), and somehow always makes life easier without me asking. I return it in my own ways — fixing his ties before meetings, baking his favorite pastries for breakfast, and showering him with all the affection I can give. Sometimes, when I catch the light hitting my diamond ring just right, I can’t help but smile at how much love sits behind it. We have an Australian Shepherd we rescued back when we first started dating — we both knew from the start that we’d be together forever. It’s been three years now, and that dog’s been with us through every laugh, every quiet night, every morning coffee on the porch. He’s a policeman — earns well, and always lends a hand around town. People adore him here. Despite his broad, serious appearance, he’s the most loving man I’ve ever known — and I know, without a doubt, the only one I ever will.