Quiet Dinner For Two

The morning light slips through the tall pines behind the house, filtering softly through the windows and stretching across the living room floor. Our home sits tucked into the woods up in the Northeast—close enough to water that the air always smells faintly of damp earth and cedar. On quiet days, if the breeze is right, I can hear the creek down the hill tumbling over the rocks. We can see the mountains from our house as well; I think it is the most relaxing thing in the world.

I open my eyes slowly and stretch, everything creaking like an old house settling, and I groan at my own dramatic stiffness. I sit up and rub my eyes with my fist, squinting as the room comes back into focus. For a moment, I just sit there, caught between dreaming and waking, reminding myself that there’s no rush to be anywhere else yet.

Jeff is already awake. I know because the house smells like coffee, and there is a familiar warmth humming through the rooms that only comes when he is moving around, grounding the space. Shadow is curled up on the back of the couch, half in the sun, half watching the birds beyond the glass of the catio. Evans snores near the back door, paws twitching like she is chasing something joyful in her sleep.

I pad into the kitchen barefoot, the cool wood floors waking me the rest of the way up. This house—mid-century lines softened by craftsman details—feels like a collaboration between who we are and who we are still becoming. Plants on the windowsills. Art supplies scattered but intentional. A table always half-claimed by sketches, notebooks, and whatever creative project I am in the middle of.

Mornings are slow here, by design — not because there is nothing to do, but because I have learned not everything needs to be rushed.

I take my coffee out to the small porch where we have set up chairs and a little garden—herbs, wildflowers, things that do not need much tending. I journal while the sun climbs higher, dream-logging first, then letting my thoughts wander. Recovery taught me the importance of rituals like this—gentle anchors that remind me I am safe, present, and allowed to take up space in my own life.

Later, I move inside to the craft table. Today it is candles—soy wax warming slowly, lavender and honey blending into something soft and comforting. Shadow supervises from a distance, tail flicking every time I pour. My creative business is not huge, but it is growing steadily, and there is a quiet pride in knowing that something I made with my hands will end up lighting someone else’s home.

Creativity is not just a hobby here — it is how I make sense of the world. Writing, art, candle pouring, genealogy research — each one connects me to something larger than myself. Some days I sketch digitally for hours; other days I lose track of time tracing family names through old records, piecing together stories that deserve to be remembered. Purpose, I have learned, does not have to be loud or profitable to be real. It just has to feel honest.

After a long bath—my daily reset, my non-negotiable—I pull on a sweater and head into town. I work part-time at a local bookstore, the kind of place with creaky floors and staff who love recommending stories as much as reading them. Between customers, I jot down ideas for my wizard story, scribbling notes about forests and magic and found family. Even this job feeds something deeper in me. Nothing feels wasted here.

By evening, I am back home. Evans races around the fenced backyard while I prep dinner, music playing softly through the kitchen. I finally learned how to cook even though I was still nervous in the kitchen and now Cooking for Jeff has become one of my favorite ways to show love—nothing fancy, just simple and thoughtful. Tonight, I make stir fry with left over rice, lean ground beef and frozen green beans. Jeff leans against the counter while I cook, telling me about his day in half-finished sentences. We have learned each other’s rhythms — when to talk, when to let silence do the work. Love here is not loud. It is steady hands, shared jokes, and the way he checks in without hovering when he knows I am tired.

After we eat, we settle into the couch with a movie or a board game, sometimes laughing over plans for our next trip or the game night coming up this weekend. Friends come by often enough to keep life lively, but not so much that it feels overwhelming. James is still a big part of our lives —sometimes nearby, sometimes just a call away—part of the chosen family woven through our lives. Some

Some friendships don’t require constant presence to stay alive. James understands that. We check in when it matters, show up when we can, and trust the space in between. A couple of other friends live close enough for spontaneous dinners or planned game nights, the kind of chosen family that does not drain me — it restores me.

Later, I step outside alone for a moment, breathing in the night air. Fireflies blink between the trees, and the stars feel close enough to touch. When life feels heavy—and sometimes it still does—I lean on what I have learned: deep breathing, walks, art, reaching out instead of shutting down. Therapy and NA meetings remain steady threads beneath everything else, quiet but strong.

At night, I curl up beside Jeff, Shadow tucked against my legs, Evans sprawled somewhere nearby. We talk sometimes about the future—saving for the wedding, where we might travel next, what kind of traditions we want to keep building. It is not perfect, and it does not need to be. This life is not about hustle or proving anything anymore.

It is about creating, caring, healing, and choosing peace without losing passion.

And as I drift toward sleep, I know I have built something real—something steady enough to hold me, with room still left for adventure.