Death isn’t a topic anyone loves to dwell on—least of all Nate. He avoids the subject like it’s an unwelcome guest, something better left for another day. But love, real love, has a quiet way of preparing for even the hardest conversations. So, we’ve done the hard work. We've made decisions that matter: legal documents, living wills, a last will and testament, life insurance, and all the uncomfortable paperwork that most couples avoid. It wasn’t fun. It wasn’t romantic. But it was necessary. And now, it’s done.
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Our financial future is stable. The plans are in place. We’re steadily growing our investments, building a foundation not just for retirement—but for peace of mind. We've ensured that if anything happens, we’re not left scrambling in grief and confusion. We’re prepared. We’ve chosen to care for each other not just in life, but through everything that may come after.
I’ve even mapped out the details of my own funeral—yes, really. I know the exact songs I want played, the outfit I want to wear, how I want to look. I want the moment, however sad, to feel personal. I want the music to sound like me, the flowers to reflect my spirit, and the memories to be soft, not somber. I have everything written out, so Nate doesn’t have to make those decisions in a fog of grief.
Nate, on the other hand, doesn’t care to think about any of that for himself. It’s not that he’s unprepared—he just doesn’t mind what happens to him. His only concern is me. If he goes first, he wants me to be safe, secure, and surrounded by ease. He wants the mortgage to be gone. He wants our investments to provide for me monthly. He wants to know I’ll never lie awake wondering how to pay a bill or whether I’ll be okay.
But I keep telling him, again and again, half joking, half wishing: we’re going together, remember? This life, this love—it’s a two-person journey. And if the universe doesn’t listen to that plan, then I know Nate will have left behind more than just financial support. He’ll have left behind a legacy of care, intention, and quiet devotion. He sometimes laughs and says, “You’ll probably find I left you a secret fortune—millions hidden away somewhere,” as if that would soften the blow of losing him. It wouldn’t. Nothing could. But it’s so him to say that.
Because what we’ve built isn’t just a life. It’s a partnership, a history, a rhythm of knowing each other better than we know ourselves. It’s the inside jokes, the shared looks, the quiet support in the chaos. It’s me finishing his sentences, and him sensing when I’m about to cry even before I do. It’s twenty-five years of growing, forgiving, loving—and yes, occasionally driving each other up the wall. We’ve had our moments. We’ve argued, we’ve disagreed, we’ve hurt each other and healed. But always, always, we’ve come back stronger.
And through all of that, one thing has never wavered: I wouldn’t trade this man for the world. Not for anything. I know he feels the same—even when I leave shoes everywhere or forget to text back. There’s an ease to our love now, like a favorite sweatshirt: worn, familiar, but full of warmth and memories.
As we look ahead, I’m not afraid. I’m hopeful. We still have so many chapters left to write. More morning coffees, more spontaneous road trips, more quiet nights watching old movies. More life. And yes, even more planning—because love that lasts isn’t just about the passion. It’s about the promise. The responsibility. The choosing—again and again.
And I will keep choosing him. Every day. For all the days we’re given.
