The words were in my mouth — ‘You’re such a disappointment.’ If I had said it, I don’t think I could’ve taken it back.

The words were in my mouth — ‘You’re such a disappointment.’ If I had said it, I don’t think I could’ve taken it back.

I walked into the kitchen ready to explode. But then I saw what was actually there. His backpack was by the door, zipped and ready. The sink was empty — the dishes I thought he’d left, he’d already washed. A note was on the counter reminding me he’d taken out the trash before I got home. I almost missed all of it. In one version of this night, I throw those words at him, and they echo for years. In another, I pause. I feel the sting in my throat turn into something else, and I say, ‘Hey… I saw you did the dishes and even took the trash out. Thank you. I should’ve noticed sooner.’ He doesn’t look at me long, just gives this quick nod, but I know I didn’t crush something we can’t rebuild. I use an app called ‘quiet effort.’ It keeps me from living in the version of parenthood where my kid only remembers the worst things I said.