“What is happiness?” he asks. “What does happiness mean to you?”
Happiness is ice cream on a hot, dry day.
Happiness is time at the beach, feeling the same between my toes, laughing and not caring that it’ll take days to get it out from our socks and shoes.
Happiness is when someone says “thank you” at the end of a long shift.
Happiness is when they unexpectedly have meatballs.
Happiness is when he sees my fat belly and thick legs and says I’m beautiful.
Happiness is when he treats me like a person deserving of love and respect.
Happiness is when there’s a place I can call home, filled with love, compassion and support.
Happiness is when I can fall into his arms and collapse after a long day and know everything will be OK.
Happiness is believing that he’ll still be there after I screw up and I’m not as perfect as he says I am.
Happiness is when he scratches my head after a long day and tells me I’ve been good.
Happiness is waking up in the morning and realising he’s there, and believing that he’ll always be there, and he’ll never go away, and he’ll fight anything that tries to take him away.
Happiness is when he always picks up my calls, even though he hates talking on the phone, because he knows that I won’t be calling unless I absolutely needed him.
Happiness is when he says “You can count on me.”
Happiness is when he spends time with me simply because he likes to, and not because because I asked him to.
Happiness is when he kisses me on the forehead and whispers that he’s proud of me because I’m been standing up so well for so long.
Happiness is when he says “I’ve got it from here.”
Happiness is when he never asks me to do anything for him, even when he knows I can easily do it.
Happiness is when he says “I’m here for you.”
Happiness is when I feel that I’m no longer taking on the world on my own.