The first light of dawn filtered through the curtains of our small Greek beach house, and I woke to the sound of waves and Lila’s quiet laughter. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her black curly hair loose over her shoulders, peeling a banana—“Breakfast tradition, remember?” she said, grinning as she held up the fruit. I smiled, sliding into the chair next to her, and traced the silver band on her left hand—the one with a tiny ivy leaf carved into it, matching mine. Happy married life for a couple, I thought, wasn’t about grand weddings or fancy gifts. It was about mornings like this: banana smoothies, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, Lila’s curls catching the sunlight.
We’d moved to the beach house six months after our wedding—small, cozy, with a porch that overlooked the ocean and a shelf filled with the seashells we’d collected over the years. The first thing we’d hung on the wall was the six-pack towel from our beach trip, now framed like a piece of art. “It’s our first ‘married joke,’” Lila had said when we put it up, and I’d kissed her, thinking how lucky I was to marry someone who turned silly towels into memories. This morning, as I poured coffee into mugs (the ones Marisol had given us as a wedding gift—blue, with banana patterns), Lila pulled out a small box from the pantry. “Found these,” she said, opening it to reveal her grandma’s old gardening gloves—purple, frayed, still holding a hint of ivy soil. “Thought we could plant the lavender today. By the porch.”
After breakfast, we walked to the market down the street, Lila’s hand in mine, our wedding bands clinking softly. The market was bustling with vendors selling fresh fruit, homemade bread, and jars of honey. A vendor handed Lila a sample of orange cake, and she laughed, wiping a crumb from my chin. “Tastes like Nikos’s mom’s baking,” she said. We bought a jar of lavender honey (to add to our smoothies) and a bunch of white lilacs (Marisol’s favorite, which we planned to send her next week). On the walk back, we stopped at the beach, kicking off our shoes to feel the cool sand between our toes. Lila’s red shorts—now a little faded, but still her favorite—fluttered in the breeze, and I took a photo, just like I had that first summer we visited. “You’re still taking pictures of me?” she said, pretending to be annoyed. “Always,” I replied. “You look too good in red shorts to stop.”
That afternoon, we planted the lavender by the porch, Lila wearing her grandma’s gloves, me holding the trowel. She hummed a song her grandma used to sing, and I joined in, off-key but happy. When we finished, we sat on the porch swing, drinking iced coffee, and watched a group of kids build a sandcastle—just like we’d done that summer with the six-pack towel. “Remember when we thought our ‘us package’ was just a bunch of seashells?” Lila said, leaning her head on my shoulder. I nodded, thinking of the box we’d filled over the years: photos, the six-pack towel, her grandma’s gloves, the ivy leaf pendant I’d given her on our first anniversary. “Now it’s our whole life,” I said. She squeezed my hand, and we sat in silence, listening to the waves, the lavender scent mixing with the salt air.
For dinner, we made grilled octopus—just like the taverna Nikos had recommended—and ate on the porch, watching the sunset. Lila told a story about our wedding day, when Mia had tripped over her flower girl dress and spilled banana muffins on the aisle. “You picked her up and said, ‘Muffins make everything better,’” she said, laughing. “That’s when I knew I’d married the right person.” I kissed her, slow and soft, the taste of lemonade still on her lips. Happy married life, I realized, was about remembering the messy, wonderful moments—the muffin spills, the off-key singing, the way she laughed at my bad jokes—and holding onto them, like we held onto our seashells.
Later, we sat on the beach, the six-pack towel spread out beneath us, and looked at the stars. Lila pulled a small seashell from her pocket—the one with the pink stripe, the one I’d found for her that first summer—and held it up to the light. “This is still my favorite,” she said. I took it from her, tucking it into the pocket of her red shorts. “Keep it,” I said. “For the next time we build a sandcastle. Or the next time I drop a fishing rod in the ocean.” She laughed, pushing me into the sand, and we rolled around, giggling like kids, until the stars were bright in the sky.
When we walked back to the house, Lila’s hand in mine, I thought about all the years we’d spent together—from the gym with the ivy-covered bench to this beach house, from banana muffins to lavender honey, from red shorts to wedding bands. Happy married life for a couple wasn’t about being perfect. It was about being together—through the messy mornings, the quiet afternoons, the silly jokes and the sweet moments. It was about Lila, with her curly hair and her grandma’s gloves, with her love for banana smoothies and seashells. It was about us, and all the little things that made our life happy.
I opened the door to the house, and Lila turned to me, her eyes shining in the moonlight. “I love you,” she said. “More than seashells. More than red shorts. More than banana muffins.” I kissed her, pulling her close. “I love you too,” I said. “More than all of it. Forever.”
And as we walked inside, the lavender scent following us, the six-pack towel still hanging on the wall, I knew—this was our happy married life. Simple, sweet, full of love. Exactly how we wanted it.
