After thirty years of marriage, one quiet evening, a wife turned to her husband and asked a simple question.
“After all these years,” she said softly, “how would you describe me?”
For illustrative purposes only
He didn’t answer right away.
He studied her for a long moment—the lines they’d earned together, the familiar smile, the woman who had stood beside him through three decades of life.
Finally, he said, slowly and confidently, “You’re A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K.”
She blinked, surprised.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
He smiled and began counting them off with pride:
“Adorable.
Beautiful.
Cute.
Delightful.
Elegant.
Foxy.
Gorgeous.
Hot.”
Her face lit up. Thirty years in, and he still saw her that way.
She laughed, leaned closer, and asked sweetly, “And what about I, J, K?”
Without missing a beat, he said:
“I’m. Just. Kidding.”
And that’s when she remembered—Thirty years of love… and just as many years of learning not to ask follow-up questions.
