People always ask us the same thing: “What’s your secret?” I usually just smile and point to her.
My wife, Adela. She’s 94 today. I’m 97. And yes—we were born on the same day, three years apart.
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We met at a birthday party neither of us wanted to attend. I had just turned 22, moody and freshly home from the war. She was 19, radiant and laughing at a joke I never heard. I still don’t remember the punchline, just her eyes.
We danced once that night. And that was it. I told my mother the next day, “I just met the girl I’m going to grow old with.” She laughed.
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Seventy-five years later, we still blow out candles side by side.
We’ve had our share of storms—raising four kids on one salary, losing a son too soon, nearly losing each other more times than I like to count. But we never stopped celebrating. Not just our birthday—our life. Together.
Every year, we celebrate our birthday the same way. The house fills with laughter and chaos—our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, all gathered around, helping us blow out our candles, singing happy birthday with that same enthusiasm they had when they were little. Even though we’re the oldest ones in the room, we still try to match their energy, sharing stories of our own youth, as if the years hadn’t passed at all.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me take you back to the beginning.
Adela and I met at that party, as I mentioned. We didn’t fall in love right away—not in the way people think of love at first sight. It wasn’t a grand gesture or a perfect moment. It was quieter than that. We just fit. There was a connection that felt like it had always been there, like we had somehow found our way back to each other after years of searching.
It wasn’t easy. Our early years were full of struggle, but it was a kind of struggle that we faced together. We didn’t have much, but we always had each other. Raising four kids with one income wasn’t glamorous, but it was real. I worked long hours at the factory, and Adela worked even harder at home, making sure the kids were fed, clothed, and ready for school. We barely had time for ourselves, but there was always love. And when you have love, it’s enough.
But it wasn’t just love that kept us together. It was respect. We respected each other’s dreams, each other’s space, each other’s needs. We learned early on that we didn’t need to agree on everything, but we had to listen. So, when Adela decided to take up painting, I didn’t hesitate to support her. When I wanted to pick up woodworking as a hobby, she did the same for me. It wasn’t about having the same interests, but about encouraging each other to pursue our passions.
And through it all, we laughed. Oh, how we laughed. Even on the hardest days, when money was tight and the kids were sick, we found ways to laugh together. We laughed at silly things, at inside jokes, at the mistakes we made. Adela had this way of looking at the world, this infectious sense of humor, that always reminded me to not take life too seriously.
I remember one moment, when our third child, Michael, was just a baby. He had colic, and nothing seemed to calm him down. Adela and I were exhausted, both of us running on fumes, barely able to keep our eyes open. But then, Adela started singing the most ridiculous song to him—something about a chicken who lost its shoes. It was so absurd that I couldn’t help but laugh. Michael, in the midst of his crying, actually quieted down for a moment, looking at her like she was the funniest person he’d ever seen.
That was the magic of Adela. She could always find the joy, even in the darkest of times.
But life wasn’t without its heartaches. In 1963, we lost our son Daniel. He was just eight years old. A car accident. The kind of tragedy that shakes you to your core and leaves you questioning everything. For a while, we didn’t know how to be. I didn’t know how to be a father without him, and Adela… well, she was just lost. We both were.
There were days when I didn’t know if we were going to make it. Grief has a way of isolating you, even from the ones you love the most. But we were strong together, and eventually, we found our way back to each other. We started talking about Daniel, remembering him not just with tears but with smiles, sharing the funny little things he used to do. We’d sit for hours, talking about his favorite toys, his laugh, the way he’d ask for a second helping of mashed potatoes at dinner. And little by little, that hurt—though it never went away—became something we could live with.
And we kept going. We had two more children, both girls, and they grew up with a full house of laughter, just as our older children had. But nothing could replace Daniel.
Over the years, there were times when Adela and I didn’t always agree. We had our disagreements, like any couple does, but we never let them linger. We learned the art of forgiveness, of letting go of pride, of choosing each other over and over again.
And that’s why, when we hit our 50th anniversary, it didn’t feel like we were celebrating just the years we’d spent together. It felt like we were celebrating the choices we’d made to stay together through it all. The late nights, the tough times, the moments when we didn’t know if we could go on—those were the things that had defined us. Not the happy moments, but the ones that tested us.
And then came the twist—the thing I never expected, but something I’d always feared. Adela’s health started to decline. Slowly, at first, and then more rapidly. It wasn’t anything that could be fixed. The doctor told us she had a heart condition, and while there was medication to manage it, it was only a matter of time.
I’m not going to lie, it hit me hard. Adela was always the strong one, the one who kept everything together. And now, I was the one who had to hold her up.
But in those final years, we had a kind of closeness I never imagined. I spent my days caring for her, making sure she had everything she needed, doing everything I could to make her comfortable. And she—she kept smiling. Every single day, she smiled at me like I was the love of her life, and in those moments, I realized something I hadn’t before: Love isn’t just about big gestures or perfect moments. It’s about showing up, day in and day out. It’s about being there for each other, even when things aren’t easy.
And today, on our 94th and 97th birthdays, Adela still smiles that same smile. She still tells me I’m her best friend, and I tell her the same. We don’t have much time left, but I’ve come to realize that’s okay. Because the truth is, we’ve already had a lifetime together. And that’s more than enough.
The lesson I’ve learned after all these years? Love is patient. Love is not perfect. It’s messy, it’s complicated, and sometimes it hurts. But love is also the thing that gets you through it all—the highs, the lows, the joy, and the sorrow. If you can hold onto love, truly hold onto it, then you can face anything together.
So, if you’re lucky enough to have love in your life, don’t take it for granted. Cherish every moment, even the hard ones. Because, in the end, it’s not the things you do or the things you have that matter—it’s the people you’ve shared it with.
