I told myself he was lazy. That he didn’t do half of what I did around here. Then winter came.

I told myself he was lazy. That he didn’t do half of what I did around here. Then winter came.

One morning I woke up and the driveway was already clear. Snow shoveled, salt laid down, car brushed off — and I hadn’t even heard him get up. I just grabbed my keys, drove to work, and never said a word. That’s the version of me that keeps repeating: blind, bitter, convinced I’m alone in this. But today, I stop in the doorway. I see the shovel propped against the wall, his boots soaked through, the trail of melted snow he tried to wipe up before I even woke. And suddenly, the story in my head doesn’t match what’s in front of me. I look at him, still pulling off his gloves, and I say, ‘Hey… thank you for doing the driveway, for getting the car ready, for freezing out there so I didn’t have to. I noticed.’ He shrugs, mutters something about it being no big deal — but I can see it land. The heaviness between us thaws a little. I use an app called ‘quiet effort.’ It keeps me from missing the work he does when I’m not looking.