I learned how to make my coffee from my husband. He came into my life armed with a beaten-up percolator and a tin of Cuban coffee grinds. We made our coffee like we made our love— sticky sweet, soft, creamy.

One of our wedding gifts was a small milk frother. It took AAA batteries. We loved frothing the milk for our Cuban lattes, delighting in how delicious it made our sweetened coffees. But the batteries quickly died and we never attempted to replace them. To say that foreshadowed what was to come is an understatement.

His coffee order changed that year. He cut milk and sugar, opting for a small mug of espresso and honey, maybe a dash of almond milk. I clung to my latte as long as I could, until I began to embrace the Americano. Still high in sugar, but replace my unfrothed milk with hot water.

When he moved to Virginia, I took our percolator to South Carolina. Our morning routine— one of us stumbling out of bed to get the coffee going— became my routine. I don’t take the time to make my own coffee every day. Some mornings it’s a rush to get out the door on time, dashing in and out of Starbucks to get my fix instead of waking up early to create a cup of my own. Those moments have now become a luxury.

I don’t know how my husband takes his coffee anymore.