Annabelle walks into the living room and plops down onto the floor, leaning back against the couch that Finn and I are sprawled out on. She has a glass of wine in one hand and a book in the other.

She doesn't say a thing, which impresses me. Maybe she's finally accepted the reality she lives in: normally it's impossible to for her to do anything in here while Finn and I are gaming. (We've been trying to beat the basilisk in Lego Harry Potter for longer than I'd like to admit.)

I look over at Finn, watch as he scrunches his nose up and sighs at the paused screen, and smile.

He's such a nice kid.

I look down at Annabelle, who has situated herself in between my legs, and play with her hair. She's such a nice wife.

How did I get so lucky?