Every year on exactly this day, Bruce and I have the same conversation. EW: Oh, wow! It’s too much! You shouldn’t have. BHM: Yes, I should. EW: No, you shouldn’t. BHM: Yes, I should. The conversation is about roses. On our first anniversary, he sent me one red rose. So sweet. Then the second year, two. Then three. Four. And now we’ve been married 42 years, and he’s still never missed a July 12 rose delivery. I’ve given him a zillion reasons why he shouldn’t keep sending roses. Almost no one gets to see them except me. They are ginormous. They die. And Bruce always smiles and says, “Happy anniversary, my dear.” These roses have become a tradition woven through our lives. Roses that got knocked over when a herd of kids ran through the house and one smacked into the dining room table. Roses that arrived at a hotel when we were traveling. Roses that came when I had the worst poison ivy of any human being on earth. Today, for the first time, we can’t be together on our anniversary. I’m in DC (work) and Bruce is in Massachusetts (grandchild). But when I got back home tonight there was one rose waiting for me. A new tradition? A down payment until I get back home? I called Bruce and said, “You shouldn’t have.” And he said “Yes, I should.” I’m a very lucky woman—and I know it.