Dahlia Seven years.That's how long I've been married to the man sitting across from me in this amazing restaurant, cutting his steak with the ease of someone who has nothing to worry about.The candles between us flicker softly, their light reflecting off the crystal glasses and bright faces of my husband, Noah and our daughter, Ellen. Everything looks perfect. The kind of perfection we usually get in the happy ending of a movie.Ellen hums cheerfully beside me, swinging her legs under her chairs as she counts the cherry tomatoes on her plates.“Mummy, daddy said today is special.” She grins from ear to ear.“It is,” I say softly, “Very special.”Noah lifts his glass, “Seven years,” he says warmly, “I still remember you burned the chicken on our first anniversary.”I burst out in laughter. That explains the reason why we've never spent our anniversary in our house after that night. The first and the last time, I would say.“You ate it anyway.” I counter.“I was in love” he says simp
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