“Approve?” She took a slow sip of wine. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the house look this beautiful.”

I watched the candlelight flickering in her eyes.

“Are you hungry yet?” I asked.

She seemed almost startled. “To be honest, I haven’t even thought about it. I think I’d like to enjoy my wine and look around for a while before we have to go.”

“We don’t have to go anywhere. I was planning on having dinner here.”

“But how? There’s nothing in the cupboards.”

“Wait and see.” I motioned over my shoulder. “Why don’t you relax and look around while I get started?”

Leaving her side, I went to the kitchen, where the preparations for the elaborate meal I’d planned were already under way. The crab-stuffed sole I had made was ready to go, and I set the oven to the proper temperature. The ingredients for the hollandaise sauce were already measured and set aside; the contents simply needed to be added to the saucepan. Our salads were tossed and the dressing made.

As I worked, I glanced up from time to time and saw Jane moving slowly through the main room. Though each table was the same, she paused at each one, imagining the particular guest who would be seated there. She absently adjusted the silverware and rotated the vases of flowers, usually returning them to their original position. There was a calm, almost content satisfaction about her that I found strangely moving. Then again, almost everything about her moved me these days.

In the silence, I pondered the sequence of events that had brought us to this point. Experience had taught me that even the most precious memories fade with the passage of time, yet I didn’t want to forget a single moment of the last week we’d spent together. And, of course, I wanted Jane to remember every moment as well.

“Jane?” I called out. She was out of my sight line, and I guessed she was near the piano.

She appeared from the corner of the room. Even from a distance, her face was luminous. “Yes?”

“While I’m getting dinner ready, would you do me a favor?”

“Sure. Do you need a hand in the kitchen?”

“No. I left my apron upstairs. Would you mind getting it for me? It’s on the bed in your old room.”

“Not at all,” she said.

A moment later, I watched her disappear up the stairs. I knew she wouldn’t be coming back down until dinner was nearly ready.

I hummed as I began rinsing the asparagus, anticipating her reaction when she discovered the gift awaiting her upstairs.

“Happy anniversary,” I whispered.

While the water came to a boil on the stove, I slid the sole into the oven and strolled out to the back porch. There, the caterers had set up a table for the two of us. I thought about opening the champagne but decided to wait for Jane. Breathing deeply, I tried to clear my mind.

Jane had by now surely found what I’d left her on the bed upstairs. The album—hand stitched with a carved leather binding—was exquisite, but it was the contents that I hoped would truly move her. This was the gift I’d assembled with the help of so many for our thirtieth anniversary. Like the other gifts she’d received this evening, it had come with a note. It was the letter I had tried but failed to write in the past, the kind that Noah had once suggested, and though I’d once found the very idea impossible, the epiphanies of the past year, and particularly the past week, lent my words an uncharacteristic grace.

When I finished writing, I read through it once, then read it again. Even now, the words were as clear in my mind as they were on the pages Jane now held in her hand.

My darling,

It’s late at night, and as I sit at my desk, the house is silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock. You’re asleep upstairs, and though I long for the warmth of your body against my own, something compels me to write this letter, even though I’m not exactly sure where to begin. Nor, I realize, do I know exactly what to say, but I can’t escape the conclusion that after all these years, it’s something I must do, not only for you, but for myself as well. After thirty years, it’s the least I can do.

Has it really been that long? Though I know it has, the very thought is amazing to me. Some things, after all, have never changed. In the mornings, for instance, my first thoughts after waking are—and always have been—of you. Often, I’ll simply lie on my side and watch you; I see your hair spread across the pillow, one arm above your head, the gentle rise and fall of your chest. Sometimes when you’re dreaming, I’ll move closer to you in the hope that somehow this will allow me to enter your dreams. That, after all, is how I’ve always felt about you. Throughout our marriage, you’ve been my dream, and I’ll never forget how lucky I’ve felt ever since the first day we walked together in the rain.

I often think back on that day. It’s an image that has never left me, and I find myself experiencing a sense of déjà vu whenever lightning streaks across the sky. In those moments, it seems as if we’re starting over once more, and I can feel the hammering of my young man’s heart, a man who’d suddenly glimpsed his future and couldn’t imagine a life without you.

I experience this same sensation with nearly every memory I can summon. If I think of Christmas, I see you sitting beneath the tree, joyfully handing out gifts to our children. When I think of summer nights, I feel the press of your hand against my own as we walked beneath the stars. Even at work, I frequently find myself glancing at the clock and wondering what you’re doing at that exact moment. Simple things—I might imagine a smudge of dirt on your cheek as you work in the garden, or how you look as you lean against the counter, running a hand through your hair while you visit on the phone. I guess what I’m trying to say is that you are there, in everything I am, in everything I’ve ever done, and looking back, I know that I should have told you how much you’ve always meant to me.

I’m sorry for that, just as I’m sorry for all the ways I’ve let you down. I wish I could undo the past, but we both know that’s impossible. Yet I’ve come to believe that while the past is unchangeable, our perceptions of it are malleable, and this is where the album comes in.

In it, you will find many, many photographs. Some are copies from our own albums, but most are not. Instead, I asked our friends and family for any photographs they had of the two of us, and over the past year, the photographs were sent to me from across the country. You’ll find a photo Kate took at Leslie’s christening, still another from a company picnic a quarter of a century ago, taken by Joshua Tundle. Noah contributed a picture of the two of us that he’d taken on a rainy Thanksgiving while you were pregnant with Joseph, and if you look closely, it’s possible to see the place where I first realized that I’d fallen in love with you. Anna, Leslie, and Joseph each contributed pictures as well.