Our tenth wedding anniversary was approaching, and I was already bracing for disappointment.
Not because I didn’t love my husband—David is loyal, hard-working, and has a heart as big as his toolbox—but because when it comes to anniversaries, he’s… forgetful. Not maliciously, just absentminded in that classic “honey, what day is it again?” kind of way.
So as July 14th crept closer, I kept my expectations low. I didn’t drop hints. I didn’t circle the date on the calendar. I just assumed he’d let it pass, like year seven… and five… and, well, most of them.
That morning, he left for work like it was any other Thursday.
No flowers. No note. No “Happy Anniversary.”
I tried not to let it sting. After all, I had plans to meet my sister for lunch, and maybe I’d treat myself to a little something. But the silence from David cut deeper than I expected. Ten years. A full decade. Surely that deserved more than “See you tonight.”
When I got home, there were no signs of celebration—no candles, no music, not even takeout containers waiting on the counter.
Just the hum of the refrigerator and a growing ache in my chest.
In a petty, emotional moment, I marched out to the garage, ready to sulk in peace. Sometimes, I sit in the passenger seat of his old truck when I need to cool down. Don’t ask me why—it’s weirdly comforting.
But when I opened the garage door, something stopped me cold.
There, tucked under a big canvas drop cloth, was… something. A large object. Curiosity beat out my frustration.
I pulled back the cover.
And there it was.
A hand-built, wooden bench—dark walnut stained, sanded smooth, with intricate carvings along the backrest. At the center, carved in delicate cursive:
“David & Ellie – 10 Years Strong.”
My breath caught.
I ran my fingers along the smooth wood, tracing each letter like a prayer. Beneath the bench sat a small envelope with my name on it. Inside was a handwritten note:
“I know I’ve forgotten dates. And dinners. And probably a hundred other things.
But I haven’t forgotten you.
Every spare evening I had, I came out here to make this for you. For us. So you’ll always have a place to sit and know that no matter how quiet I get, I love you louder than I say.
Happy Anniversary, El.
– D.”
Tears rolled down my cheeks before I even finished reading.
He hadn’t forgotten.
He had remembered in the most David way possible—not with store-bought jewelry or fancy dinners, but with time. With care. With the calloused hands that had built something from nothing, like he always did.
When he came home an hour later, I was already sitting on the bench, waiting.
“I was going to surprise you tonight,” he said, sheepish. “Guess the tarp didn’t do the job.”
“It did,” I said, pulling him down beside me. “But not as well as you did.”
We sat in silence for a few moments—just the creak of the bench, the dusk setting in, and our hands clasped tightly together.
Ten years.
Not every day was romantic. Not every season was easy. But this? This moment was everything.
Final Thought:
Love isn’t always loud or perfectly timed. Sometimes it shows up in sawdust and silence—in handmade benches and quiet devotion. The best gifts aren’t about remembering the date. They’re about never forgetting the person.
