Nine years ago, I fell in love with Brandon. Our first date was for drinks at a little bar in a hip nearby town. He walked in wearing cool sneakers and a J Crew button down shirt and tripped a little bit when he came up the step and grinned in the most endearing way. Shortly after our first date, I went up north for a family fishing trip and felt it in my soul that if it didn’t work out with him, I would lose all faith in love and any hope of finding it.

It did work out, but plot twist – we had a lovely summer together and in the fall, he moved to Iowa for a year. Before he left, we knew that we’d found something special, and decided to stay together and give it a go. He needed to meet the most important person in my life, though, and we took my kiddo to Cranbrook for a picnic on a golden Saturday afternoon.

Nine years later – nine years of several out of state assignments that keep us long distance, nine years of cats and the kiddo and the house and a pandemic, a graduation, the death of my father, season upon season falling down on our tree-lined street – we went back to Cranbrook for another picnic on a similarly beautiful afternoon. He brought sandwiches and cupcakes and as my daughter distracted me with a selfie opportunity overlooking the lawn and water features, Brandon fetched a small box. When I turned back, he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him.

It took us nine years to get engaged and it may take another nine for us to go to the courthouse and make it legal, but we have all the time in the world. I didn’t need a ring to know that he is the only person I ever want to spend my life with, but the two people I love the most planned the most perfect proposal in the most perfect place, and I will never forget the feeling of all that love.