I used to complain that he never lifted a finger around here. That everything was left to me. Then one night I went to open the cabinet and realized the door didn’t sag anymore.

I used to complain that he never lifted a finger around here. That everything was left to me. Then one night I went to open the cabinet and realized the door didn’t sag anymore. 

The hinge was fixed. The squeaky floorboard by the hall? Quiet now. The bathroom drain that was backing up? Flowing fine. None of it happened by magic. He’d been fixing things while I wasn’t paying attention. And I almost let it slip by, like it didn’t matter. That’s the version of me that keeps the story going — that he doesn’t care, that I’m carrying all of this alone. But then I saw the screwdriver still out on the counter, the little pile of screws he’d replaced, the flashlight propped against the wall. I walked in and finally said, ‘Hey… thank you for fixing the hinge, the drain, all those little things. I noticed.’ He didn’t say much, just gave this half-smile, wiped his hands, and went back to what he was doing. But the air between us felt different — lighter. I use an app called ‘quiet effort.’ It keeps me from overlooking the work he does quietly to keep this place together.