October shifted Lola into the crib, brushing a soft kiss onto her forehead, and padded barefoot back to the living room. She looked tired but radiant. Like the kind of beautiful that comes from joy, not effort. I was on the couch waiting for her, a small gift box resting on my lap.
"Sit," I said, patting the spot beside me. "You didn't think I forgot, did you?"
She gave me a skeptical smirk. "You've been too busy organizing balloon arches and fighting your daughter for control of the glitter. I figured you'd skip it this year." I handed her the box. "Never."
She opened it slowly, inside was a delicate bracelet with three small stars, one for each of our children. Each star bore an engraved initial: J, A, L. Her lips parted, eyes going soft. "For every night you woke up to feed them. Every morning you kissed a scraped knee. For being their safe place," I said. "and mine." 

She was looking at the bracelet with a sweet smile.
"Did you know that in Hindi, 'Jal' means water?" I added gently., "It's the beginning of the bracelet, and I think that's fitting. Water is life. It adapts. It carves through stone if you give it time. That's what we've done, you and me. That's what love is, I think...carving through grief, joy, silence, chaos, and still flowing forward."
She blinked slowly, eyes shimmering, and I reached forward to fasten the bracelet around her wrist. For a moment, she said nothing, just leaned in, gently resting her forehead against mine. Her voice, when it came, was a breath more than a whisper.
"It's beautiful... really."
"Thank you love," I said, pulling her into my lap. Then, almost shyly, she reached behind a pillow and pulled out a small, rectangular box wrapped in navy paper.
"This is for you," she said, a small smile playing at her lips. "I know you're usually the one who surprises me on the kids' birthdays, but I'm learning your love language... remember?"
Inside the box was a pen — sleek, elegant, weighty in my hand. I turned it slowly, and there, engraved along the barrel in delicate lettering, were the words:
"For the man who rewrote everything. Let's begin again, without erasing the past."
My throat tightened.
"October..." I said softly, the rest of the words caught somewhere between my ribs and my heart.
She cupped my cheek. "You always write letters. Notes. Words I never got from anyone else, not like that. I wanted you to have something to write with because it's time to begin again. No more erasing the past. Just... carrying it differently.
My throat tightened. "I don't know what I ever did to deserve your grace."
"You showed up," she said softly. "You learned. You apologized and didn't stop there. That's everything."
We sat like that for a while, her fingers idly playing with the collar of my shirt, my arm wrapped around her waist, our foreheads resting together in the warm hush of a home that felt whole again. I kissed her slowly, like I was learning her all over, even though I'd never really forgotten.
After a beat, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded page. "You remember that night," I said softly, "when we joked about needing commandments to get this right?"
She let out a quiet laugh, eyes narrowing in amused suspicion. "You didn't."
"I did," I said, handing it to her. "Not rules. Just reminders. My ten commandments of loving you right."
She unfolded the paper, and as her eyes moved down the list, her expression shifted, smile softening, eyes shining. She read them aloud, one by one, her voice tender, her breath catching just slightly on the last.