Halfway through dessert, someone walked in. I looked up. It was Tunde. Suit, flowers. The good perfume he only wore on special occasions. He spotted me and stopped. Then walked over slowly, like a man approaching something fragile. "How did you know I was here?" I asked. "Your sister," he said quietly. "She called me and said, 'Your wife is celebrating your anniversary alone. You have twenty minutes.'" He set the flowers on the table. "I'm sorry," he said. "I forgot what this day means to you. I forgot what you mean to me." I looked at him for a long moment. Seven years is not a small thing. It carries weight, arguments, laughter, children and sacrifice. Some days it's beautiful. Some days it's just hard. "Sit down," I said finally. He sat. The waiter brought him a menu without being asked. We ordered again. Talked until the restaurant started clearing tables around us. On the drive home he said, "I don't want to be the husband who forgets." "Then don't," I said simply. He nodded. Set a reminder on his phone right there in the car. April 14th, every year. Don't be a fool. I laughed for the first time all evening. Some marriages don't need a big dramatic ending, they just need one honest moment where both people choose to show up. RT if you believe some things are still worth fighting for. 🤝