More than two years into our marriage, we still have date nights nearly every night. This irks my friends and family when I ignore their calls as I buzz around the house, lighting candles and cooking dinner. Around 7 p.m., my husband and I sink into the couch cushions, plates in hand, to watch a movie or listen to music. Nothing extravagant, just coziness and romance.

Our loved ones have said, “Wait until you’re together for seven years” or “This is just the honeymoon phase. You’ll both get sick of each other.”

Maybe, but so far, we seem to be headed in the opposite direction.

This is his first marriage and my third. Minutes before our rainy courthouse wedding, my future mother-in-law said, “He’ll be your last love and you’ll be his only love.”

If you had asked me five years ago if I would ever date again, I would have said, “Not in a million years.” I was a middle-aged woman filing for divorce, sleeping in the family room until my then-husband moved out. Ours wasn’t exactly an amicable split, but it wasn’t war either. I think we both knew it was over.

We agreed that he could take almost everything except a few pieces of furniture — couch, coffee table, yoga mat. He had bought most of it anyway, so it seemed fair that he should take it. After he left, my life felt spare and unencumbered, and I wanted it to stay that way.

I work as a freelance makeup artist in Portland, Ore., but business had been slow back then, so for extra income I took a cashier job at the local Fred Meyer grocery store, which is where I met Tylan.