It sure caught my interest. There is a company that offers to pay couples ten grand toward their wedding costs. With one slender string attached. 

If the pair splits down the road, they get to pay it back. With interest.

Before the deal is signed, the two are assessed for compatibility. Those that seem more destined to succeed have a higher rate. 

I like that their name, Swanluv, is a nod to the graceful birds that mate for life. 

There are days when I don't want to do what I promised to. This morning I went out to open up the chicken coops, and realized it rained in the night. The yard was like a rice paddy, with soggy dishes of food, and the ubiquitous mud. I dragged a tarp over one pen, sloshing in my tall boots, but still managed to get my white pants filthy. The ones I put on five minutes ago. Rainy days are not the high point of chicken keeping. But I promised to care for them, and I did. They didn't even say thank you. 

There were days when Ben was younger that I wondered if his teachers would greet me at the door with crossed arms.

"No thanks. We don't want him." Part of me didn't, at least in that moment. We all knew he would wet his pants, have a tantrum, maybe two. But they never turned him away. Things are much better now. He landed an invite to a Sweet Sixteen Bash at the Buck Hotel, and remembers to wear his suit on Wednesdays when he works at Tom Murt's office. Just now when I served him breakfast he arranged for a dramatic reading of The Christmas Carol to play in the dining room. From the Ipad, which was in the living room. 

Swanluv is one way to provide guard rails for when couples bang against the edge. They chose their own destination. No one else picked it for them, but even that free choice does not provide immunity to resistance.

If I had bailed on Ben ten years ago I would never have had the pleasure of eating fresh laid eggs with him while the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come helped Scrooge veer back from the edge of self destruction.