In another life, I married the person I love most.
A few years later, we bought a small coffee farm. Nothing extravagant. Just a modest house surrounded by rows of coffee plants, where the air always smelled faintly of earth, rain, and freshly brewed coffee.
Coffee teaches patience. We planted young coffee trees and waited years before they were ready to produce cherries. We learned how to care for them through every season, how to recognize healthy leaves, how to harvest only the ripest red cherries, and how to dry and roast the beans until they became the coffee we would one day serve.
Our days followed a simple rhythm.
We woke up early, shared our morning coffee on the porch, then spent hours walking through the fields checking irrigation lines, pruning branches, and inspecting the coffee plants. The work was repetitive, but never boring. Every task felt meaningful because we were building something together.
At the very end of the farm, right beside the road, we opened a small coffee shop.
White walls. Wooden tables. Fresh flowers by the window.
Every morning we baked simple treats before opening the doors. Cinnamon rolls, banana bread, butter cookies, and small cakes cooling on the counter while espresso filled the room with its familiar warmth.
Everything we served came from our farm.
The coffee in each cup had started as a cherry growing just a short walk away.
People would stop by for coffee, pastries, and a quiet moment before continuing their journey. Some became regulars. Others were travelers who stumbled upon our little shop and never forgot it.
In the evenings, after closing, we would walk back through the coffee fields together. The farm would be quiet, the café lights turned off, and the sky painted in shades of gold and pink.
It was a simple life.
No rush. No grand ambitions.
Just the person I loved, a coffee farm, a small café, and the comfort of knowing that every day ended exactly where my heart wanted to be.
