He also added chocolate drizzle because life has been hard.
He is my person.

We talk a lot around here about choosing your person. And the one I choose sets a standard my kids see and I pray take into their hearts. I tell them all the time he was like this from the start, they will be able to see it in other people if they look with the right eyes.
It is in the little things they notice, the day-to-day moments that show he cares. The way he will inconvenience himself at the drop of a hat if he knows it will make my day even slightly better.
The love moments.
I sip my coffee and tuck away this moment and try to find a time when I can do the same for him. His loving me well makes me a better person.
He makes my coffee.
I save half of my meal every time I go out to eat and let him have the leftovers (unless it’s gnocchi—that’s mine, food love has limits apparently).
He runs back downstairs for my water bottle when I’m all tucked in and don’t want to get out from under the covers.
I order weird music for him off of Amazon that are all bands I’ve never heard of but that make him smile when that little bubble-wrapped envelope comes in the mail. I love that smile.
We may be deep in the trenches but this is where it all shows up.
It was easy to do grand gestures and big date nights and just check off that box as love, but those are fleeting things.
It’s the little things that make up every moment of every day. They can break it too. If we shut each other out and only look out for ourselves.
So we invest in the little things that show love.
And our kids are watching, always, always watching.
They see what matters and they too tuck it away into their hearts, they laugh when we fight over doing the dishes because we both want the other one to sit down.
They act a little grossed out when we kiss in the kitchen but they see our love is still there and that matters.
I just pray that each of our kids chooses someone who whips fresh cream for their coffee and I pray they someday order weird music they know their person will love.
And when they do maybe they will remember the morning their very tired dad took the time to love on their very tired mom. And then our love will continue through them and through those they love. In a million little ways.
Life is made up of love moments, friends.
I hope you have some and give some today as well. Together we make the world a better place, one cup of fresh whipped cream at a time.

That was Monday morning.

On Tuesday, I found out I had to go out of town for a work meeting. Last-minute travel—my least favorite kind. I was already overwhelmed, juggling the kids’ schedules, laundry that never ends, and a headache that was probably more from mental overload than anything physical.

Without even asking, he cleared his schedule. He messaged his boss, arranged to work remotely, and told me, “Don’t worry about a thing. Just go, do what you need to do. I’ve got everything here.”
And I believed him because he always does.

By Wednesday, I was halfway across the state in a nondescript hotel room eating dinner out of a takeout container while FaceTiming home. The kids took turns holding the phone and giving me a tour of the chaos they’d created in the living room. He popped in behind them, hair a mess, holding a spatula and giving me that sheepish smile. “Pancakes for dinner. It was that kind of day.”

I laughed, but I could see he was tired. And still smiling.
Still showing up.

On Thursday, something small but sweet happened. I had left my charger at home (classic me) and had barely enough battery to text. At lunch, I opened my bag and tucked inside was a tiny envelope. No card, just a folded piece of notebook paper with his handwriting.

“Don’t forget to breathe. You don’t have to be everything to everyone. You’re already enough.”

It wasn’t poetry. It wasn’t flowers. But it was perfect.

When I got home Friday, the house was a mess. Dishes in the sink, laundry half-folded, dog fur rebelliously floating through the air. But the kids were happy. They had survived. More than that, they had thrived. They had a dad who made them laugh while brushing their teeth, who read them the funny voices in the bedtime books, who remembered to pack carrots even though they begged for chips.

And when I walked through the door, he didn’t give me some grand romantic speech. He just smiled, handed me a warm mug of coffee, and said, “Whipped cream’s in the fridge. I made extra.”

I don’t know what love looks like in other homes, but in ours, it’s that.
It’s worn socks and mismatched Tupperware lids.
It’s shared calendars and post-it notes on the bathroom mirror.
It’s arguing about whether the thermostat really needs to be that low, but still grabbing the blanket from the closet because you know they’ll be cold.

It’s knowing that not every day is Instagram-worthy. Most of it won’t be. But the quiet, faithful love we give each other daily? That’s the story we’re writing.

But here’s the twist life threw at us.

Saturday morning, we got a call. His mom—my mother-in-law—was in the hospital. A fall, nothing too serious, but enough to shake us. We packed quickly. He drove. I sat beside him, holding his hand while he blinked back tears he didn’t want the kids to see.

And that night, after we got her settled and everything calmed down, I found him outside the hospital vending machine, staring at the rows of junk food like it was a riddle he couldn’t solve.

“You okay?” I asked.

He nodded. “Just tired. And I was thinking… someday, our kids might be doing this for us.”

I didn’t know what to say at first, but then I remembered something he had once told me years ago, when we were newlyweds and broke and happy and stupid. He said, “If we do this right, love becomes the inheritance.”

So I told him that.
And he smiled again.
The tired kind.
The kind you give when the world is heavy, but your heart is still full.

Sunday morning, we were home again.
The house was just as messy as before, and life didn’t pause to give us a break. But as he reached for my hand while we passed each other in the hallway, I realized something:

Love isn’t in the big things. It’s in the consistent ones.
It’s in choosing each other over and over again—on the hard days, on the boring days, even on the days when there’s nothing left in the tank but we give anyway.

So, friend, if you’re reading this—here’s the message I hope you tuck away today:

It’s not about grand gestures.
It’s about the one who notices.
The one who shows up.
The one who whips the cream and folds the laundry and holds your hand outside the vending machine.
That’s love.

And when you see it, cherish it. Nurture it. Reflect it.
Because the little things?
They are the big things.

💬 If this story touched your heart, share it with someone you love. Like, comment, or tag someone who’s your person. Let’s keep passing on the kind of love that makes the world better—one quiet moment at a time. ❤️