He strides across the workshop, brings over a wooden box. He made the box himself, obviously. It’s oak, polished and stained to a glossy shine. There are no fasteners or metal, only cleverly joined wood. The top lifts off, and within is a bedding of straw, cradling a carving.

It’s us, I can see, before I’ve even lifted the carving out. Carefully, I withdraw the carving from its bedding. I know what it is immediately: a representation of our wedding photo, framed and standing on our mantle: Him and me, on our dock, at sunset. He’s wearing a tux, I’m in an ivory mermaid dress, my hair long and loose and curled into wide spirals. We’re facing each other, hands joined at our waists, about to kiss. Our bodies form a heart, framing the setting sun.

Nathan has captured this photo in white pine, in extraordinary detail, in figurines some six inches tall. Individual fingers, even eyelashes, tendrils of hair, his beard, the planks of the dock under our feet. It’s unpainted, just polished and stained, and the more beautiful for it.

My eyes start to sting. “Nathan, my god…it’s incredible.” I blink the happy tears away. “But…why? I mean, why today?”

He smiles, an amused smirk. “You mean you don’t know?”

I frown. “It’s not our anniversary, I know that. I may have pregnancy brain, but I know our anniversary.”

“Not our wedding anniversary, no.”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“Nope.”

I huff. “Are you really going to make me guess?”

He tugs on a lock of my hair. “One more guess, sweetheart. Then I’ll tell you.”

“It’s not the day we found out I was pregnant.” I hold up a finger to forestall him telling me—I have an inkling, and it’s forming into knowledge. “Oh! I know: the day we met.”

“Bingo.” He places the carving back into its nest of straw, and leads me out onto the porch of his workshop. The same rocking chair sits there still. “I was sitting here, reading. You pulled up in that car, and I saw you for the first time. It was three years ago, today.”

“We didn’t actually meet the first day I arrived though, you know.” I’m teasing him. “It was the next day.”

“Don’t split hairs with me, woman. Today is the three-year anniversary of the day I first brought you coffee. You were on your porch, and you were wrapped up in your favorite blanket.”

“And seriously jonesing for coffee,” I tease. “I fell in love with you for a lot of reasons, but I think that cup of coffee was the first step.”

“I know the date, because I’m thankful more and more every day for having met you. You’ve changed my life in so many ways that I can’t even begin to list them all. And I guess I just wanted to make you something to memorialize the day you first began saving my life.”