An example book, every page

Elena and Sam

Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, 2013 to today. The occasion: anniversary. Fourteen memories, written as a love note from Elena to Sam and painted from their photos. This is the whole book, cover to last page, as it prints.

Who they are

Thirteen years on the Nova Scotia shore: a grade-four teacher, a proposal in the fog at Peggy's Cove, an orchard wedding, a hurricane the whole street got through together, and Maple the golden retriever.

The honest part

Elena and Sam are an invented couple. We wrote their answers and made their photos ourselves to show you what a finished book looks like. Every page here was then written and painted by the same process a real order goes through, and nothing was drawn by hand.

Our story begins
August 2013, at Katie's wedding in Lunenburg, the seating chart had a mix-up. You and I ended up at the kids' table, the only adults, surrounded by six little ones under ten and a bowl of crayons. You started to doodle on the paper tablecloth, a whale taking shape, or at least, your interpretation of one.
The kids were demanding your signature next to the masterpiece. As the speeches began, I found you, chair and all, parked beside me, the right table forgotten.
Page 1 of 14
The first date
September 2013, a sunny Saturday at Lawrencetown Beach. I watched you walking towards me, arms laden with a bundle of wood, a bag of marshmallows, and two paper packets. You'd promised a fire and food, and by golly, you delivered.
We spread a blanket on the sand and ate fish and chips out of the paper while the sun dipped below the hill. Every marshmallow was consumed by flames, but you just laughed, holding out the least charred one to me.
Page 2 of 14
When I fell for you
The red leaves crunched underfoot as I finally, breathlessly, reached the bench. An hour late, I saw you stand up, two cold coffees beside you. No recrimination in your eyes, no impatient tap of a foot. Just a warm smile and those simple words: "You're here."
In the time it took to walk to the gate, as you chatted like there hadn't been a long wait at all, I knew. I was falling for you.
Page 3 of 14
Fog at Peggy's Cove
The fog rolled in that May day at Peggy's Cove. The lighthouse was a grey ghost behind us, and the granite was slick with salty mist as you led me to the water's edge. You sank to one knee on the wet stone while it swirled around us like a living curtain.
Then you wobbled, your foot slipping, and I was terrified the ring might tumble into the sea. So before you could say the words, I whispered "Yes" on a shaky exhale.
Page 4 of 14
The orchard wedding
The string lights twinkled like a constellation fallen to earth, draped between the apple trees, their fruit just starting to blush red. Sixty hearts gathered at long tables beneath them. I wore my mum's lace dress, taken in, and Katie read a poem and cried through all of it.
A wasp got into the cake, and nobody told me until after. It was thirty degrees, so you shrugged off your grey suit jacket with a grin, ready to twirl me into our first dance.
Page 5 of 14
A warm side of the bed
The winter chill nips at my toes as I slide under the covers each night. But there's one simple gesture that warms my side of the bed.
Every evening, you sneak in with that humble hot water bottle and tuck it beside me like a secret. It started in our first apartment, and even now, in our house in Dartmouth, you still remember. Not just the heat, but the thought behind it. It's our love language in the dead of night.
Page 6 of 14
Maple comes home
There you were, kneeling down to do up your boots, the morning light just starting to peek through the window. And there she was, Maple, our golden retriever puppy, sitting at your feet, her tail wagging with anticipation.
Your fingers worked the laces as you laid out the plan for the day. You always had a way of making her feel like part of the conversation. Maple tilted her head slightly, as if truly considering it, then licked your hand.
Page 7 of 14
Supper on the driveway
The wind howled through the night, and Hurricane Fiona tore into our corner of Dartmouth. The old maple lay shattered across the fence and shed, and our house sat dark and silent for five days.
Every evening, you'd be in the driveway at the camp stove, stirring pots of steaming pasta and freezer scraps while neighbours brought their chairs. Josie, three, thought it was a party, and by the time the power came back we knew every name on the street.
Page 8 of 14
Weather's coming
I pad into the kitchen, the floorboards creaking their familiar tune under my feet. I find you there, your gaze fixed on the sky beyond the window. The sun could be shining, but there you stand, head cocked as if listening to a whisper only you can hear.
"Weather's coming," you declare, that charming certainty in your eyes. You're a welder, not a meteorologist, yet every morning you predict the storm like a seasoned sailor reading the waves.
Page 9 of 14
Our Saturday
The ferry chugged across the harbour, Josie giggling in her yellow raincoat. The market gave us the cinnamon swirls of our shared treat and a coffee each. Maple charged into the water at Point Pleasant and emerged triumphant, shaking off on us both.
Now pancakes await, late, Josie's chatter punctuated by the sizzle of batter. Outside, Maple curls up on the porch, a golden retriever comma in the middle of our sentence of a life.
Page 10 of 14
El and Sammy
I love it when you call me by my short name. I can't help but smile whenever I hear it roll off your tongue. My whole name only comes out when you're reading a card out loud.
Let's just say the name I keep for you has a certain magic when I really need something. Like when the laundry pile gets too high, or I'm craving your famous pancakes on a rainy Saturday morning. Don't think I'm using you for your cooking... much.
Page 11 of 14
Who we thought we were
I chuckle at my first impression of you at Katie's wedding in Lunenburg. There you were at the kids' table, so at home with the little ones that I was sure you were somebody's older brother, roped in to keep them quiet and very good at it.
You'd pegged me as the planner, the way I kept checking the seating chart. Yet what you noticed first was your El, the only one there eating the bread rolls before dinner.
Page 12 of 14
Kids' table
It's our little joke, our inside story. Whenever we land a cramped seat, a bad view, the back row or the end of the dock, one of us says it: "Kids' table."
And somehow it makes everything okay. It reminds us how we began at the kids' table at Katie's wedding, six children and a bowl of crayons, a place that seemed less than perfect but turned out to be just right. The best seat in the house.
Page 13 of 14
The next ten
I sit on our porch, ten years married this August, and I think of the kids' table in Lunenburg where it began. The sun dips low over Dartmouth. Maple snoozes at my feet, our golden.
I look at you, Sammy, and smile at how far we've come. I raise my glass, sparkling in the fading light, and toast to us and the next ten. I'd choose the wrong seat with you again and again, because look where it's led us.
Page 14 of 14