Our first apartment became our first house.
Our first car became an old memory.
Our daughter Emily was born.
She grew from a tiny baby into a teenager.
Then a young woman.
Then she moved away.
Jobs changed.
Neighbors came and went.
Friends got divorced.
Some friends passed away.
Our hair turned gray.
The world changed around us.
But at nine o’clock, Victor still poured the drink.
Two glasses.
Every night.
Even when we were angry with each other.
Even when one of us was sick.
Even when we had guests.
And that last part always bothered me.
Because Victor never offered the drink to anyone else.
If friends came for dinner, the bottle disappeared.
If family visited, he locked it away in the cupboard.
If Emily asked what it was, he always gave the same answer.
“An old family recipe.”
The first time Emily asked, she was sixteen.
She had come downstairs late one evening looking for something to eat.
