I almost walked out tonight. I had my keys in my hand, ready to slam the door and be done. I told myself she didn’t care anymore, that she’d stopped trying. But before I left, I looked around.

I almost walked out tonight. I had my keys in my hand, ready to slam the door and be done. I told myself she didn’t care anymore, that she’d stopped trying. But before I left, I looked around.

Dinner was packed away in the fridge, my lunch already in a container with my name on it. The laundry folded on the couch. My work bag moved next to the door so I wouldn’t forget it. Quiet things she never announced. And I realized… she hadn’t stopped. I had stopped noticing. That’s the version of us where I let resentment blind me until she’s gone. But I caught it this time. I set the keys down, walked back in, and said, ‘Hey… thank you for doing all this. For holding things together even when I was ready to give up. I see it.’ She didn’t say much, just looked at me like she wasn’t sure if I meant it. But I felt the air shift. It wasn’t fixed, but it wasn’t broken beyond repair either. I use an app called ‘quiet effort.’ It keeps me from choosing the version of our story where I only notice after she’s already gone.