In the summer of 1995 I fell in love with my husband. I was a youthful 18 year old, freed from the shackles of A level revision and all set for university. I had a handsome man on my arm and a badly paid summer job in the steamy kitchen of a care home.
Though my memories of that summer are patchy, I remember sweaty evenings working in the kitchens followed by sweatier nights out at nightclubs with my man. I worked hard and played hard. I hardly saw daylight and was focused on squeezing every last bit of fun out of my pre-uni summer.
I was busy getting to know the man I would eventually marry, even though we’d end up at universities at different ends of the country for a few weeks until he moved up to be with me.
Our love burned brightly and intensely as teenage love does. I still love him intensely and passionately for the man he was and the great man he has grown into. I often look back at the boy and see how being together we’ve helped shape each other and grow, our shared destiny intertwined.
I love that I married my soulmate, my best friend and favourite person in the world. I love that I managed to just stumble across him so early in life before I managed to accrue too many broken hearts and hurtful memories. I know how lucky we are.
Though I met him in the summer I know we’ll hold each others hearts until the winter of our lives.