Price your husband

When you first met Price, you couldn't even hope that he would ask you out. He seemed too busy and sometimes grumpy to do such nonsense.

Not hand-in-hand or coffee-time, but a real relationship.

You weren't his "girlfriend" or "beloved"; you had a confident, firm title that had nothing to do with your age: his woman

"You're my woman," John would say when you looked at him in surprise after he proposed moving in together, "and I want my woman by my side."

And you moved in together, and then one evening while watching some nonsense on TV, he calmly handed you an engagement ring in a black leather box.

And you said yes. Surprisingly, knowing John, who didn't like grand gestures, the wedding took place.

You were standing at the altar in such a charming white dress, clutching a bouquet of wild flowers with a mixture of tea roses. Shifting from foot to foot in white stiletto heels.

And John standing opposite you, in a tuxedo, which he had chosen so carefully, with surprising meticulousness even for himself.

“Bitter!” McTavish shouted, jumping up from the guest seat, and you felt not only John’s clean-shaven cheeks, but also the beginning of something new, but surprisingly calm.