“I found a cookbook with a recipe for chocolate cupcakes. I went to the grocery and bought all the ingredients on the list. Except, I forgot to buy the measuring spoons. When I went home, I couldn’t understand the teaspoons versus tablespoons,” she explained. “We only had one kind of spoon in the drawer, and I couldn’t tell if it was for the tea or the table.” She placed her hand on her head. “It was so confusing!” she said, laughing. “Anyways, by the time your father came home, he found cupcakes that had exploded in the oven and me crying on the kitchen floor.”

“I had no idea what happened, and when she finally told me, I laughed . . . which made her even more upset!” he said, shaking his head. “But after she finally calmed down, I broke off a piece of her American cupcake from the oven and tried it. It tasted so bad!” He laughed. “But I ate them all, just to keep her heart.”

“And that was the moment.” My mother looked at him, smiling. “That was when I knew that you were the one I wanted to spend every anniversary with for the rest of my life.”

I looked at my parents as they gazed happily into each other’s eyes. It was rare to see them outwardly express their affection for one another—in fact, in my twenty-six years, I couldn’t recall them ever kissing or even holding hands in my presence. However, listening to them reminisce about their life together made me realize that love was meant to be subtle. It wasn’t found in the grand gestures you saw in the movies, but rather in those small moments that might not seem like much to the eye, but meant everything to the heart.

“So that was the moment you first fell in love with Abba?”

My mother blushed and smiled.

“But what about before that?” I asked.

“Before that, he was my husband. I still cared for him, but it was different.”

“Love after marriage. It is the only way we know.” My father bobbled his head. I smiled, remembering our conversation right before I left for India.

“You know,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “that was also an important year for one more reason.”

“Oh?” My mother leaned forward. “And what reason is that?”

“That was the last year you ever baked me an American dessert,” my father replied, his eyes twinkling.

I shook my head and laughed.

“Well, maybe that is because you are no longer a skinny man!” My mother clucked her tongue as my father puffed out his belly and made a sad face.

“If I am fat, it is only because of all the fatty foods you’ve been feeding me for the past thirty years.” He winked at me.

“Oh, really? And will you eat a salad if I make it for you? No, it is you who likes all these oily foods!”

As my parents continued blaming each other for their poor dietary habits, I couldn’t help but smile at their relationship. They bickered nonstop, they hardly ever agreed on anything, but they were more in love with each other after thirty years than any other couple I knew. Despite all the disappointments I’d faced these past three months, a part of me still remained hopeful that I would one day find the kind of love they had . . .