She was eighteen. A math and chemistry nerd, more fond of books and calculators than looks and popularity. She was more prone to quote a hymn or a textbook than a pop song or movie. She hated hot dogs. And donuts.
She stole my heart without even trying.
That teenaged college sophomore became my bride. My best friend became my wife.
And then she changed. Fourteen years later, the college kid I married is now a woman.
She’s a woman I’m proud to know, and proud of. She’s an excellent writer, a deep thinker, and a wonderful friend.
She’s a woman who loves her children immensely, and winsomely.
She’s a woman who cuts to the chase, but lingers on the important things.
She’s a woman who loves her high-school sweetheart more than I deserve or will ever understand.
She is my partner in love, in mission, and in passion.
She sits on her cheap couch, in a concrete row-house in Southeast Asia, and writes. And she changes the world.
She is an underground feminist, convinced that women are in fact equal. She is comfortable in her skin.
She is capable of following, or leading, and yet she prefers to walk beside me.
She is a gift of the highest kind. A foundation and strength to me that few see, and no one comprehends.
Many women do noble things, Elizabeth Marie, but you surpass them all.
You’ve worn the name well over these past fourteen years, my love, so with your permission, I will continue, forever and for always, to adore you, Mrs. Trotter.