I thought a lot about getting married when I was a little kid. It was always such a strange idea to me that I would grow up and live in a house with a person I didn’t even know yet. Would I really want to go with him to the annual Christmas parade instead of my parents? Would I wake him up at night when I felt sick? Would he buy my birthday presents or would my mom?

As I grew up, I started to understand a lot more about marriage and I still had questions. I started to think about what kind of man would I want to be “daddy” to my kids. I wondered if I could marry a Cowboy’s fan if I met one. I wondered what I would do if I happened to fall in love with a man that liked hunting and wanted to hang dead heads on my walls. I wondered if I could even love said man. I wondered if I could pull together an impressive dinner party for my future husband’s boss if an important deal hung in the balance. Could I make salmon croquettes? Ever?

However, the one thing I didn’t really do a lot of wondering about was my future husband’s family. Why would I? I was young and immature and had my own family. And, even though they were an odd bunch, I loved them. They were my family. I couldn’t imagine any other.

How silly was I?

It turned out when I did grow up and find my person he came with a whole host of people that would find little nooks and crannies of my heart to fill. I struck gold. Hit the jackpot when it came to my bonus family. I have spent hours with them laughing and vacationing and riding boats and eating queso and becoming family. I now know that one of the greatest gifts you’re given when you marry is your spouse’s family. Or at least it is if your new family is like my husband’s. And if one of those family members is Sharon.

Sharon is my husband’s first cousin. When I married him, I already had thirty first cousins of my own. Turned out I needed Sharon in that collection.

I’m sitting here with my fingers hovering over this keyboard trying to pluck the words out of whatever pool I draw from to help all of you understand what Sharon meant to me. But, bigger than that, to my husband. Have you ever had someone who just liked you? You were their favorite? The person they most wanted to see come through the door? That was my husband to Sharon. Every time we showed up anywhere she was a big deal was made. About him.

He’s not the kind of guy who invites that kind of attention or knows what to do when it happens. He’s just this quiet, steady man that doesn’t have a lot to say about himself. Now imagine that guy with an entire dinner prepared just for him. Or a huge silver tin full to the top with mint chocolate fudge–again prepared just for him. She never forgot his birthday. She never failed to come see him. She loved him. And, she showed it. I think that’s an anomaly in a lot of ways. Lots of people say they love us, but how many of them will melt chocolate and turn it into fudge every time we come to visit? How many people will make sure someone gives it to us after they leave so the fuss won’t be about them? Sharon’s kind of people. The best kind of people. And, I think, it’s a special kind of person that does that for someone who just needs it. Turns out quiet guys who don’t make a fuss about themselves really need that sometimes.

I’m stuck now. All of those words above go a little ways towards showing y’all Sharon, but they don’t quite do her justice. I need more. Maybe this will help.

Years ago, when my husband and I were a young couple, we threw a party. I think it was on the 4th of July. And, this wasn’t just any party. This was a perfect party. At least it was to us. We had just built a new redwood deck that we were beyond proud of. My husband’s band was there that day and there was the sound of guitars being tuned and drums being set up. It wasn’t too hot and our huge oak trees were shading the whole area. There were kids darting in and out eating cherry popsicles and challenging each other to tricks on the trampoline. There was lots of food and cold beer and every friend we had in a hundred mile radius. It was perfect. And then, Sharon showed up. She and her husband were on a trip and went out of their way to stop and see us. I remember standing on my deck watching everything go on around me with such a bubble of happiness inside my chest and then hearing someone call my name and turning to see Sharon walking down my driveway and feeling instantly and, crazily, infinitely happier. She just added happy to my happy to my happy. I screamed hello, jumped up and down a few times, and then quickly turned to find my husband. No way was I going to miss his extra happy.

And, that’s who she was. Through three decades of marriage she has consistently been someone who made us happier every time we saw her. Who always had time for us. Time to take us on drives to find every house my husband’s family had ever lived in, in the town they had all always lived in. That’s a lot of houses. Time to open her home to host a party to surprise family when our daughter got pregnant and our son got engaged. Time to sit out on a patio on a flowered lawn chair and talk about the old times. The family memories. The bits and pieces that matter. Time to make prune cakes.

What? I haven’t told you about the prune cake. Oh goodness. Guess there are more words to land here. More words about Sharon. I’m happy to do that.

Turns out when you’re a kid with thirty first cousins there’s not a lot of room to be a favorite. Or to have a fuss made about you. I think I was twelve years old before I remember having my own birthday party. My mom always just did mine with my sisters. We were all summer birthdays so it made sense. I feel you triplets. And, I think you just get used to things like that in your life and you don’t even take the time to realize that they bother you. Not a lot, but enough.

Sometimes, you don’t realize it until it’s the day after Thanksgiving and you’re on your way home from a visit to your bonus family. You’re looking at an eleven hour trip and your husband is tired and so you pull out the taped up brown sack that Sharon sent with strict instructions to open it on the road. You open it expecting to find a tin of mint chocolate fudge. And you do. But, at the bottom, you also find a prune cake wrapped in that waxy paper that just makes everything taste better. The kind your grandma always wrapped sandwiches in. You find that cake and you know that Sharon must have stayed up until the early morning hours baking it just for you after you raved about it the day before at dinner. Seriously, only she could have made a prune cake taste that amazing. You picture her standing at her stove after what was already a long day of pies and turkey and dishes and you feel what that cake means to your very middle.

I ate that cake with tears of exhaustion and gratefulness and with my husband watching me nervously from the driver’s seat. It had taken a lot to get my little family there that year. To find the money, the time and the energy. My mom had cancer and I was running on fumes. Sharon saw all of that and gave me my own special shout out. Raisins and cinnamon, prunes and love. It was, without a doubt, one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me.

I feel like the words are done with me now. When I read this years from now, I will get a flash of Sharon. Short, curly hair and a wry smile. Not a hugger, but a cake baker and a fudge maker and a spotlight shiner. The real deal. One of the blessings of marriage and a bonus family that I never saw coming.

Double happy.

What a huge damn thing.