Kenji is my knight in shining armor. He really is. His suit of armor is slightly loose these days - ever since his hospitalization he has lost a lot of weight - but the baggy fit doesn't affect his chivalry one bit.

He cheers me on. Over and over, when long working hours need to be made, he is the one who tells me what a good job I'm doing for our family, keeping me alive with amazing cappuccinos and savory lunches.
He refuses to give up. When we at the last minute couldn't make it to the Rembrandt exhibition because the flu knocked me down completely, he ripped our prepaid tickets and booked new ones in an instant. He assured me that we would go, one way or the other, no matter how many substitute tickets he would have to buy.
He watches over me. After his transplantation, maintaining a certain quality of life has been everything but easy. For him - and for me. He insists that there is more to our life than just putting one foot in front of the other. He hovers over me, in the loveliest way, to make sure that I throw a little bit of fun in the mix as well.

My knight and I finally had the opportunity to visit the exhibition Late Rembrandt at the Rijksmuseum. He and I were both blown away by the once in a lifetime assembly of masterpieces, in particular by Rembrandt's portrait of Jan Six. Kenji commented how bold and self-confident Rembrandt had painted the portrait and he couldn't have described it more accurately. At the rare occasion that we observe art together, I always think he is the better art historian of the two of us. (Ssst. Don't tell him.) My eyes went from the 17th century merchant to my husband, who was perfectly at home and looked happier than in ages.

My knight in shining armor isn't giving up indeed. Talk about bold and self-confident.


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