Edward kissed his wife and left for work just like every other day of the week outside Saturday and Sunday.

He drove the hour to work, put in his eight hours and drove an hour back. He stepped into the house, took a deep breath and sighed contentedly. Maria, his wife, was cooking barbecue ribs, one of his favorites.

He found her in the kitchen, swaying to music as she cleaned up dishes.

Bending close, he pressed a kiss to her neck. "It smells good in here."

"It should," she smiled. "We're having your favorite barbecue meal."

When the meal was ready, they ate agreeably, enjoying conversation and a calm night.

Two months later, Maria was gone, her life cut down by an unforeseeable stroke that was as much a surprise to Edward as everyone else who'd loved her.

"Grandpa," his grandson asked one afternoon. "How did you and Grandma stay married for so long?"

It'd been nearly a year since Maria's passing and Edward still felt it like a stake to his heart.

"Your Grandmother was a special woman," Edward said. "And I don't say that in a cliche sort of way. She truly was special."

"But that doesn't tell me anything. Aren't most women special?"

"Well, I can't speak to most women, but I would assume that a lot of them are."

Edward poured coffee for both of them and sliced up some pound cake to accompany it. "Do you think Darla's special?"

"Of course," Riley answered and Edward smiled.

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"I mean, why do you think she's special?"

"Well," Riley stopped, contemplating. "She's beautiful and smart and funny."

"Those are all good qualities, but what about her faults?"

"What faults?"

Edward smiled again. Grabbing a sheet of paper from a nearby table and a pen. "When you can fill this paper with Darla's irritating qualities and still say that you love her and that she's special, let me know."