The last thing I said to him before the accident… wasn’t kind. And I’ve been stuck with that all week. He’s home now, moving slow, bandage on his arm, still managing to take the trash out before I got here...

The last thing I said to him before the accident… wasn’t kind.

And I’ve been stuck with that all week. He’s home now, moving slow, bandage on his arm, still managing to take the trash out before I got here. The counter’s clear, his jacket’s hung up, the mail’s sorted into neat piles. I almost just talk about the weather and leave it at that. That’s the path where we never talk about the hard stuff, where the space between us gets permanent. But I stand there, looking at the tied trash bag by the door and the way he set aside my mail. My throat feels tight. I say, ‘Hey… thank you for doing all this. Especially now. I don’t take it for granted.’ He looks up for the first time since I walked in, and I can see something let go in his face. It’s small, but it’s enough to make me stay a little longer. I use an app called ‘quiet effort.’ It keeps me from missing the moments I can’t get back.