365 Days (Part 1) | ✓

Day 5. Food

5. Food: What's for breakfast? Dinner? Lunch? Or maybe you could write a poem about that time you met a friend at a cafe.

Eggs. Clean, bright yellow, in a fluffy mass. Scrambled eggs are my favorite. They just kind of soothe you, like an old friend would. Plus, they go good with toast. I like to scoop the eggs onto the toast and treat it like one dish. He included that too, and even though the bread is a little burnt -- a tad too crispy, just a little black -- I have to appreciate this. He knows me. Knows to put just the tiniest pile of shredded cheese on the side, to sprinkle onto my eggs. I don't like the cheese to be melted, which is why I only add it at the last minute. He knows to have a bowl of fruit -- succulent grapes, firm blueberries, and sweet-smelling strawberries -- embedded in a bowl of creamy greek yogurt. The fruit looks fresh, and I wonder if he picked it from my garden. For a moment I want to forbid him from doing that: My garden is my safe place, and he doesn't know how to handle my plants. Then I reel myself in. Or really, this thoughtful breakfast does. One that I never expected.

I can tell him to stay out of my garden later. Not today, though. Not when he deserves nothing but praise for this gift.

I still can't figure it out: How well he knows me. No one has ever paid enough attention to me to know  what I like, and this present, this unexpected surprise, brings tears to my eyes as I realize that he did  pay attention. He does love me, as annoying and obnoxious as I am. No one has ever done that.

He comes in, with a glass of milk, smiling. I love his smile. I love everything about him.

"Do you like it?" he asks, setting the glass down on the table tray and nuzzling my neck.

I nod silently, feeling unreasonably choked up.

He pulls back, looks at me. He doesn't have to confirm that I'm crying happy tears. He already knows it. However, he just wipes the tears off my cheeks with the pads of his thumb and says softly, "I'm hungry."

I giggle, and pat the bed next to me. "Share with me."

He hops up with the same easy grace I had admired in him since I met him, and without hesitation picks a purple grape from the fruit and yogurt concoction and plops it in his mouth. "Yum," he says.

I eye him, just for the pleasure of doing so. This man that's mine. Heart, body, soul, mind...

He grins. "Try the milk."

I obey, and after a sip lean over and kiss him.

"You like it that much, huh?" he teased, but his eyes stayed fixed on me.

It was familar milk, milk just from a cow. I had tasted it frequently, having grown up on a farm. It was sweet, creamy, rich, and utterly delicious. It was just a little comforting thing to me. So tiny, unnoticeable, a minor detail. But he remembered that I missed fresh milk.

It was the perfect timing. He didn't know how nicely he had set this up. I nibbled on the crust of the bread, chewed, swallowed. He continued to eat the fruit. My husband wasn't a fan of yogurt.

"I have something to tell you," I said, taking a deep breath.

He stopped. There was something in my tone. The hope was already in his eyes. I was glad I could gratify it.

"I'm pregnant."

His reaction was immediate and very ethusiastic. I'm not really sure how long it'll take me to clean up all of the food on the bed. I'm not even sure if he's going to regret knocking the table tray over when he prepared my breakfast so nicely, not when we were both so happy, me and this husband of mine.