Some love stories start with a grand gesture. Ours started with my parents dragging me to play pickleball on St. Patrick’s Day. A lucky day, indeed. Kevin, already a devoted pickleball guy, ended up on a court far away from us, because every other court was full. He heard me laughing with my parents, noticed we were a player short, and asked my dad if he could join. My dad looked him up and down, pointed at me, and said, “Play with her.” My parents then “casually” disappeared to the restrooms long enough for Kevin to ask for my number. Subtlety is not their strength. Our first date was mini golf, where we talked for three hours and almost forgot to play. The place stayed open late just so we could finish the course and share our first kiss. We drove home giddy, knowing this wasn’t a normal first date. It felt like the beginning of something real. From there, we built furniture together, crossed the “long distance” border between Vancouver and Portland (a whole state away!), went on adventures, traveled, laughed endlessly, and fell deeply in love. Even my bunny, Finn, approved—maybe a little too much. Kevin had lived a whole life before me, and I had waited for a love that felt true. Somehow, all the twists and detours led us to the same pickleball court on the same lucky day. And now we’re building our life together—me, Kevin, and Finn—exactly where we’re meant to be.