My name is Rosemary. I’m 78 years old, and I’ve been married to my husband, Henry, for nearly six decades.
We met in high school, seated beside each other in chemistry class simply because our last names were close alphabetically. He made me laugh—really laugh—and that was the beginning.
After graduation, we worked at the same factory, married at twenty, and built a life together. Four children, seven grandchildren, and now one great-grandchild later, we’ve shared a lifetime of memories.
Every Sunday meant barbecues in the backyard. Every night before bed, he’d say, “I love you, Rosie.” He still does.
Henry knows exactly how I take my tea. He notices when I grow quiet. He gently brushes crumbs off my sweater without drawing attention to it.
