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further on my plans right away, however, for it was around this time that Noah had a stroke.   It was not the first stroke he’d had, but it was his most serious. He was in the hospital for nearly eight weeks, during which time my wife’s attention was devoted fully to his care. She spent every day at the hospital, and in the evenings she was too tired and upset to notice my efforts to renew our relationship. Noah was eventually able to return to Creekside and was soon feeding the swan at the pond again, but I think it drove home the point that he wouldn’t be around much longer. I spent many hours quietly soothing Jane’s tears and simply comforting her.
    Of all I did during that year, it was this, I think, that she appreciated most of all. Perhaps it was the steadiness I provided, or maybe it really was the result of my efforts over the last few months, but whatever it was, I began to notice occasional displays of newfound warmth from Jane. Though they were infrequent, I savored them desperately, hoping that our relationship was somehow back on track.
    Thankfully, Noah continued to improve, and by early August, the year of the forgotten anniversary was coming to a close. I’d lost nearly twenty pounds since I’d begun my neighborhood strolls, and I’d developed the habit of swinging by the post office box daily to collect items I’d solicited from others. I worked on my special project while I was at the office to keep it a secret from Jane.   Additionally, I’d decided to take off the two weeks surrounding our thirtieth anniversary—the longest vacation I’d ever taken from work—with the intention of spending time with Jane. Considering what I’d done the year before, I wanted this anniversary to be as memorable as possible.
    Then, on the evening of Friday, August 15—my first night of vacation and exactly eight days before our anniversary—something happened that neither Jane nor I would ever forget.
    We were both relaxing in the living room. I was seated in my favorite armchair, reading a biography of Theodore Roosevelt, while my wife was leafing through the pages of a catalog. Suddenly Anna burst through the front door. At the time, she was still living in New Bern , but she had recently put down a deposit on an apartment in Raleigh and would be moving in a couple of weeks to join Keith for the first year of his residency at
Duke
Medical
School
.   Despite the heat, Anna was wearing black. Both ears were double pierced, and her lipstick seemed at least a few shades too dark. By this time, I had grown used to the gothic flairs of her personality, but when she sat across from us, I saw again how much she resembled her mother. Her face was flushed, and she brought her hands together as if trying to steady herself.
    “Mom and Dad,” she said, “I have something to tell you.” Jane sat up and set the catalog aside. I knew she could tell from Anna’s voice that something serious was coming. The last time Anna had acted like this, she’d informed us that she would be moving in with Keith.   I know, I know. But she was an adult, and what could I do?
    “What is it, honey?” Jane asked.
    Anna looked from Jane to me and back to Jane again before taking a deep breath.
    “I’m getting married,” she said.
    I’ve come to believe that children live for the satisfaction of surprising their parents, and Anna’s announcement was no exception.   In fact, everything associated with having children has been surprising. There’s a common lament that the first year of marriage is the hardest, but for Jane and myself, this was not true. Nor was the seventh year, the year of the supposed itch, the most difficult.
    No, for us—aside from the past few years, perhaps—the most challenging years were those that followed the births of our children. There seems to be a misconception, especially among those couples who’ve yet to have kids, that the first year of a child’s life resembles a Hallmark commercial,