Eight to Two

There's a list on the kitchen wall. Nobody put it there on purpose. Two columns. Your name, and theirs. And under each one, a row of little marks.

Who said sorry first. Who called. Who remembered the birthday, emptied the dishwasher, gave in on the holiday. You don't want to count. You're just noticing.

Eight to two. That's the score on saying sorry. You went first eight times. And it worked, every time. Ten arguments, ten good evenings after. But you can't enjoy the evening. You're looking at the wall.

You'd be a wonderful accountant. Nothing escapes you. Except that in this bookkeeping, a perfect balance is fifty-fifty, and fifty-fifty means each of you gives half. On a week when you could have given eighty.

And when they have a hard week and you could carry more, you don't. It wouldn't be fair. You're not petty. Underneath the counting there's a fear. That if you stop keeping score, you'll be the only one giving. And nobody will notice.

So look at what the list has actually bought you. Ten good evenings. How many of them did you feel?

The score didn't protect you. It just took the evenings. Watch two children after a fight. Five minutes later they're building something again. Neither one knows who started. If someone truly never gives, you'll know it without a wall. That's a different conversation. This one is about ten good evenings.

Wipe one column. See how the room feels. Some weeks you'll carry eighty. Some weeks you'll be carried. What are you still keeping count of?