Twelve years ago tonight, I sat in a café having dinner with a dark-haired guy who had glasses and a kind face. Our conversation was easy and fun and went on for hours, in spite of the fact that it was a school night for me and it was a half-hour drive back home for him. Even after I finally put on my coat at about 10:30, we still sat at the table chatting for quite a while. Neither one of us was in any hurry to end the evening.
Ten months later, we were engaged.
Not long ago, Matthew asked me, “Mommy, why did you marry Daddy?” I found that a fascinating question, coming from a six-year-old. And there are so many ways to answer the question. He is kind. He is smart. He gets me. I told him my most deeply personal stories and they didn’t scare him away. He is handsome. He is open-minded towards those who see the world differently. I knew he would be a good daddy. All of those answers are true.
But maybe, it comes down to this: I married him because on February 8th, 2001, I sat with him at a small candlelit table in downtown Palo Alto and we talked for hours and nothing short of a nuclear blast could have pulled either one of us away from that table. We did not want the conversation to end. And, in a way, it never has.