Page 172 of The Rom-Commers

“People say ‘marriage is hard’ all the time.” He looked around thesmall crowd—which included our family, Jack Stapleton and Hannah, Logan and his husband, Nico, Mitsuko’s family, in town for the summer drop-off, and all the members of the community garden.

My dad went on, “But I disagree. I don’t think marriage is hard. I think, in fact, if you do it right, marriage is the thing that makes everything else easier.”

My dad let that sink in.

He went on. “Now you’re wondering how to do it right—right?”

We nodded.

“Well, you’re lucky. Because love is something you can learn. Love is something you can practice. It’s something you can choose to get good at. And here’s how you do it.” He let go of his walker to signal he meant business: “Appreciate your person.”

He looked around.

“That’s it,” he said, like we were done. Then he added, “Well—first, be sure to choose a good person.” He evaluated the crowd to make sure we’d done that. Then he said, “But we’re all good people here.”

Bashful smiles all around.

He went on: “Choose a good, imperfect person who leaves the cap off the toothpaste, and puts the toilet paper roll on upside down, and loads the dishwasher like a ferret on steroids—and then appreciate the hell out of that person. Train yourself to see their best, most delightful, most charming qualities. Focus on everything they’re getting right. Be grateful—all the time—and laugh the rest off.”

My dad smiled at us, and then put a hand back on his walker.

“And that goes for kids, too, by the way—and pets, and waiters, and even our own selves,” he said. “There it is. The whole trick to life. Be aggressively, loudly, unapologetically grateful.”

My dad nodded at us then, likeYou’re welcome.

Then he concluded with, “Now let’s get these two kids hitched.”

ALL TO SAY… yes. Thiswasandisa happily ever after.

Even though I still—always—miss my mom. Even though my dadcontinues to struggle with his balance, and just got seven stitches after slipping in the shower, and still keeps his unplayed cello in a corner of the room where he can see it. Even though Sylvie and Salvador have been trying for a baby for two years and haven’t had much success. Even though I still google “elbow cancer” in the middle of the night, and I don’t make it home nearly as often as I’d like to, and feel, honestly, a little jealous of Sylvie sometimes, now that she’s taken over. Life has no shortage of disappointments. Mistress Jablowmie got vengeful when she didn’t get her screenplay from Charlie, and now his Mafia movie may never see the light of day. T.J. Heywood continues to menace me every chance he gets—stubbornly refusing a redemption arc. The lovely Mitsuko has an irritating new neighbor who keeps spraying insecticide on the butterfly weed she planted as food for the monarch caterpillars. And Cuthbert the guinea pig never did conquer his melancholia—and eventually followed his brother across the rainbow bridge.

That’s just life.

Tragedy really is a given.

There are endless human stories, but they all end the same way.

So it can’t bewhere you’re goingthat matters. It has to behow you get there.

That’s what I’ve decided.

It’s all about the details you notice. And the joys you savor. And the hope you refuse to give up on.

It’s all about writing the very best story of your life.

Not just how you live it—but how you choose to tell it.