I told myself I was the only one falling apart. That he just sat there, distant, while I broke down. But looking back,

I told myself I was the only one falling apart. That he just sat there, distant, while I broke down. But looking back, he was the one holding everything steady. He kept the kids busy when I locked myself in the bedroom. He ordered dinner when I couldn’t even think about cooking. He stayed calm when I threw every sharp word I had at him. And I almost let that look invisible, like it didn’t matter. That’s the version of me that convinces myself I’m alone — until he finally stops trying. But tonight I caught it. The toys already picked up. The takeout boxes stacked neatly in the trash. My blanket folded on the couch where I’d left it. My chest tightened when I finally said, ‘Hey… thank you for carrying things when I couldn’t. For keeping us afloat when I was drowning. I see it.’ He didn’t answer right away, just leaned back and exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. I use an app called ‘quiet effort.’ It keeps me from missing the kind of love that doesn’t ask for credit.