Still Yours

After thirty years of marriage, Eliza and Mark had long since mastered the art of loving through life’s seasons—the brilliant springs of new adventures, the blistering summers of raising kids, the golden autumns of quiet companionship, and even the long winters of worry. Especially lately. Mark’s blood pressure had been creeping up, Eliza’s knees had started to ache, and the mirror had become a little too honest about time’s passage. But through it all, there was still laughter. Still love. Still the way he looked at her when she was brushing her teeth and didn’t know he was watching.

Their thirtieth anniversary loomed—a date both of them held like a secret in their hearts. Neither said much about it, but they each felt the weight of it. Thirty years. A quiet, powerful kind of miracle.

One rainy Thursday, Eliza sat at her desk with a cup of chamomile tea and a daring idea. She’d read about boudoir shoots in a magazine while waiting at the doctor’s office. At first, she’d laughed—who would want to see a fifty-eight-year-old woman in lingerie? But then she thought of Mark. She thought of the way his hand always found hers during movies, the way he still kissed her shoulder in passing. She knew he’d want to see her. Not a younger her. Not a perfect her. Just her.

So she booked a session in secret, giggling nervously as she chose lacy things she hadn’t worn in years and tried poses in the mirror when no one was looking.

What Eliza didn’t know was that Mark, in his own quiet way, had also decided to step out of his comfort zone. After overhearing her on the phone one night laughing about “feeling spicy again,” he worried he was falling behind. So, with the encouragement of their daughter (who wisely promised not to ask questions), Mark found a local photographer who specialized in something called “dudeoir.” He blushed furiously through the consultation, but when the day came, he stood with confidence—soft around the middle, graying at the temples, but undeniably him. The kind of handsome you earn.

On their anniversary, they exchanged gifts at their favorite little Italian restaurant. Mark handed Eliza a thick envelope tied with gold ribbon. Inside were six tastefully shot black-and-white photographs: him in suspenders and slacks, leaning against the piano, smiling like he had a secret. Eliza’s mouth fell open.

“Oh my God. You did a shoot?”

“I wanted to surprise you,” he said, a little red in the face. “I figured… after all these years, I should remind you I’ve still got it.”

She laughed so hard she cried. Then she handed him her own envelope. His eyes widened as he pulled out each photo—Eliza, barefoot in a silk robe, soft curls falling around her shoulders, eyes daring him to look away.

“You’ve definitely still got it,” he whispered.

That night, they lay in bed, their bodies older but their hearts crackling with something brand new. Not youth—not a return to the past—but a deeper, braver kind of intimacy. One born of years, of knowing, of choosing each other over and over again.

Eliza smiled in the dark. “What are the odds?”

Mark reached for her hand. “Two fools, same idea. Thirty years, and we’re still surprising each other.”

Still yours. Still mine. Still us.