TO celebrate our 25th anniversary, I had the videotape of our wedding converted into a DVD as a surprise for my wife. This was going to be a stay-at-home anniversary; we had splurged on our 20th knowing that by this year our oldest son would be frighteningly close to college. So a quiet dinner and a movie — our own movie — were what I had in mind.

My wife and I hadn’t viewed the ceremony in years, but the routine was delightfully predictable. She would cry on cue (at the moment when she choked up reciting her vows) and we would hold hands and give each other that knowing look — the one that said, “I’d do it all again, in a heartbeat.”

I had forgotten how long it took to get beyond our background stories — the high school swim teams, the travel — all leading to that electric day in Santa Barbara, Calif., when we first laid eyes on each other and knew almost instantly we were meant to be.

“I’ve met the man I’m going to marry,” she reported to her mother that first night.

As the DVD played on, the tears began welling, but this time long before we recited our vows. And it was me crying.