In those days, we would say, “We’re trying,” for a while, and then, “We can’t have kids,” end of discussion. It was simpler to let people assume than to explain that our choice was different from theirs.We had good jobs, no money worries, and followed our own interests and hobbies. Weekends were filled with concerts, gardening, and small adventures. We traveled often—sometimes with a plan, sometimes with just a map and curiosity. There was no rush, no pressure, just freedom to enjoy each other fully.
People often asked, “Don’t you feel like something is missing?” I would smile politely. What they didn’t see were the little moments: the way we danced in the kitchen to old records, the evenings we spent quietly reading by the fireplace, the joy of waking up every day knowing we had chosen each other—over and over again.
Now, as I sit by the window and watch the sun set, I think back on our life together. We didn’t follow tradition, but we built a world that was steady, kind, and filled with laughter. If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t change a thing. Happiness doesn’t always look like everyone else’s picture—it can simply be two people, walking through life side by side, and realizing that was always enough.
