Katy Okrent

The first gift my husband Peter gave me was a jar of black licorice. On our first date, we discovered we both loved black licorice, so the next day, he sent it, along with a smiley face on a card.

 On that same date, we shared our divorce stories. His was worse. Train wreck bad. And yet—incredibly—he hadn’t lost hope. He said he still believed in the idea of a soul mate. No, no, no, I told him. We weren’t meant to mate for life. Marriage meant nothing.

A few weeks later he gave me a stuffed moose he’d bought in Alaska. He said he’d been thinking of me. A couple months later, he bought me two Swedish water glasses after I’d admired similar ones at dinner. Then came a knit sofa throw because I’d gotten cold watching TV.

I was grateful for each gift, of course, but also guilty I hadn’t reciprocated. I couldn’t think of anything to give. At least anything as romantic or thoughtful. His creativity was intimidating—and foreign to me. In my former marriage, gifts were disappointing, and sometimes, forgotten. To preempt the hurt, I decided I didn’t care. Gifts meant nothing.

But they meant something for Peter. It gave him joy to give them, which started to grate on me. His birthday was around the corner, and I wasn’t feeling joy. I was stressed.

So when he showed up with a glass pair of lovebirds, I felt even more stressed. They were sitting on graceful swirls, kissing like fools.

I don’t like tchotchkes, I snapped, and his face fell.

But that wasn’t what I didn’t like. It was his cheery outlook. His silly pleasure in making me happy. His relentless belief in love.

Not so much that he had them. But that I didn’t.

Maybe you could, he said. He put the birds on my dresser. They’ve been around for our wedding and two moves. Incredibly, they’re still kissing.