I don’t even know the last time I told her thank you. That’s the truth. And when I stop to look, I see all the years stacked up in front of me.

I don’t even know the last time I told her thank you. That’s the truth. And when I stop to look, I see all the years stacked up in front of me. 

The laundry folded, the meals prepped, the calendar managed so nothing slipped through the cracks. Shoes lined up by the door, groceries somehow always stocked, bills scheduled before they were even due. All those things I treated like background noise — like they just… happened. And in my silence, I let her believe I didn’t notice. That’s the version of us I was living: the one where she holds it all together until she’s too tired to keep trying. But tonight, I catch it. I see the grocery bags still half unpacked, her hands raw from dishes, the laundry basket empty because she already handled it. My chest tightens. I finally say, ‘Hey… I see all the work you’ve been doing. The groceries, the dishes, the laundry — all of it. Thank you.’ She stops, just for a second, like she’s not used to hearing it. Then she nods, sets the bag down slower. The air between us feels different, lighter. I use an app called ‘quiet effort.’ It keeps me from living the version of our life where the one who kept us going never heard she was seen.