As their sixty-eighth wedding anniversary approached, Becky thought about her parents in a way she hadn’t before. What does sixty-eight years even feel like? To her, who had stumbled through marriages herself, it felt impossible to imagine. Nearly seven decades of waking up beside the same person, loving them through everything from raising six children to the quiet mornings when they were just the two left. And now, loving each other through the shadow of dementia. She thought about how rare it was and admitted to herself that she felt like she hit the jackpot having parents like that.
The anniversary itself was simple. It had to be. Big changes rattled her mom and left her confused or upset, so instead, they kept it part of their usual Sunday breakfast routine: a plate of eggs and toast, coffee, maybe a laugh about something one of the kids said years ago. Sometimes love isn’t fireworks; it’s comfort. Becky knew that now, even if she once believed otherwise.
That warm Sunday, after breakfast, she walked her mom back home. Her mom insisted on sitting in the sun, and when she insisted, there was no changing her mind. The wheelchair zipped across the sidewalk with surprising determination, Becky trailing behind like a reluctant chaperone. “Don’t go into the street,” she warned. “Why not?” came the reply, as if cars were a minor inconvenience, not two-ton machines. Her mom turned instead onto the grass, sandals off, soaking up sunshine like her medicine. Becky half-admired her stubbornness, half-worried she’d end up chasing her through the neighborhood.
Inside, Becky’s dad was trying to change out of his Sunday clothes. Remember those? The special outfit you wore just because it was Sunday. He was moving slowly, probably tired, probably a little overwhelmed. Becky checked the backyard every few minutes, relieved that her mom was still in her sunny spot. Until suddenly she wasn’t. Somehow, as if propelled by hidden strength, her mom had made her way to the door, calling for Carl, her husband. “Too late,” she said, and Becky realized what she meant. Too late for the bathroom.
Mom wanted Carl. Only Carl. Becky and her aunt offered, but she shook her head. He was half-asleep in their bedroom, shirt hanging halfway on, but he came. Sixty-eight years of marriage will do that. Even tired, even worn down, he showed up. He always had. Becky watched them together, even in this messy moment, and thought, This is what vows look like. Not the perfect wedding-day promises, but the daily, ordinary, sometimes heartbreaking work of keeping them.
The ordeal stretched into hours, and Becky finally called her husband to pick her up. She begged him to bring a cold drink, which could trick her into believing she was still on vacation for a little longer. He did, and as she sipped it, eyes closed, she thought about the contrast between the young couple her parents once were and the elderly pair they are now. She imagined they dreamed of travel, laughter-filled adventures, and freedom back then. Not dementia, not days measured by routines, not this.
But then again, maybe it wasn’t so different after all. They still laughed, took walks, and woke up to new adventures, even if they looked smaller and stranger than anyone might have pictured. They still had each other, which was the whole point of those vows.
Becky knew their life story could fill an entire book, one with almost all the chapters already written. And even though the last few chapters weren’t what anyone would have wished for, they were still chapters of love. Sixty-eight years after standing at the altar, her parents still proved what choosing someone means. Through sickness, through confusion, through laughter, through heartbreak. And to them, that was enough.
