This morning I posted this picture of mine on social media that my husband took this Eid without telling me, lamenting that I was ACTUALLY wearing make up.

He took these candid photos without telling me and I look like a triangle duck.

But that’s just me.

He thought I looked beautiful. I didn’t think too much.

Here’s the thing. This man hates being photographed. Yet, puts up with me clicking incessantly all around him because I’m obsessed with him.

I take his pictures sleeping, I take his pictures with Sassi, without Sassi, watching TV, working, laughing, being goofy. And he still doesn’t hate me for it. That in itself is an achievement.

He will take as many pictures as I ask him to. This year on my birthday I wanted to go to Kew Garden and he tagged along without an ounce of displeasure. Stood in the lines. Got pictures taken. And when Sassi slept in my lap through the guided tour, took a gazillion pictures. I kid you not. A gazillion. I would keep saying. NOW, this plant. That tree. This bridge. This tree again.

For 2-3 hours straight with a smile.

A man who hates pictures.

He also took this picture where I slept while working and holds it dearer to his heart than any picture I have more make up on or I think I look pretty.

I’d choose him a million times over for this IS the man I love. Who sees through me. Who has a heart kind enough to treat the women around him as human and not merely around to look pretty or do the hard jobs.

He values me for every bit of who I am in his own muted (and some very loud) ways and I love him right back.