for my [far into the future] children.

In 2004, I met your father. Your father with his mop of curly hair and his mischievous smile. (Which I learned was not mischievous at all; your father, in an irony of ironies, is a rule-follower, and I, former class valedictorian and teacher's pet, have become the rule-breaker. "Drive faster," I say. "Skip school, just this once!") 

Your father and I became fast friends. He was my comfort zone in a place I was not always comfortable: Alabama, the land of accents as thick as sweet tea. We encouraged each other, endured each other, and wound up loving each other. 

Four years later, I married him. My best friend.

We moved into a tiny apartment that I dubbed our treehouse. I fell in love with it. I was Anne of Ingleside, and he was my Gilbert.

Our first year was full of ups and downs. Lots of laughs, many tears. But mostly, just happiness. Because, here is what I learned: the Beatles had it right.

John, Paul, Ringo, and George weren't just songwriters; they were truth-tellers.

Because. 

All you need is love.

That's it. Then, now, and forever.

Love for the Father. 

Love for each other. 

Just love. 

And that was year one.