Because for the first time in a long time, I felt the full weight of his devotion. Not just the love he had for me, which had always been there, but the work he was willing to do. The daily, humble effort. The kind that doesn't shout or chase; it just stays.
But I also knew then: I wasn't going back. Not to the version of us that broke under the weight of silence and avoidance. Not to the person I used to be, the one who swallowed things whole just to keep the peace. That woman is gone, and honestly, she deserved to be.
We weren't patching up an old boat full of holes, hoping it would float again.
We were building something new.
It was hard. Still is, sometimes. We work at it, every day. On communication. On patience. On softness. We try to meet tension with curiosity instead of defense. We've learned to pause instead of punish. If something feels off, I say it. I don't wait for it to rot inside me and turn into resentment and he listens, and he tells me when he feels off, too. That part was new for both of us.
Like the day I stopped by his work unannounced, just a quick visit, nothing planned. I was dropping off something he'd forgotten, something small but what I walked into wasn't small at all, not to me.
One of his longtime clients was there, standing too close, laughing too loudly at something he'd said. Her hand brushed his arm, lingered a second too long and even though he stepped back, even though his whole posture shifted, polite, professional, a bit colder...my chest tightened. His eyes flicked to mine the second he saw me, and something in his expression softened immediately, like he knew. Like he felt it, too.
But still, that old sting flared. That old panic. The voice in my head that used to whisper don't make a scene, don't be the jealous wife, don't give him a reason to think you're too much. In the past, I would've swallowed it. Pushed it down until it turned to stone in my chest. I would've smiled through it, convinced myself I was overreacting, only to quietly pull away later, colder, harder, without ever saying why.
But not this time. That night, when we were both home, warm and quiet in the kitchen, I told him, "I know you didn't do anything wrong," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "But it still... got to me."
He took both my hands in his, looked straight into me and said, "Okay. What do you need? Do you want to stop by more often? See the front desk footage? Want me to introduce you next time she's around? Tell me what helps, October. Because you come first. Always."
The way he said it did more to heal me than any grand gesture ever could. He didn't just hear me. He chose me. He reassured me without needing to be right. Without making me feel wrong. That's what growth looks like, I think. Not perfection, not the absence of triggers or insecurities, but the presence of love that knows how to hold them gently.
That's who we are now. Two people who stopped trying to win at love and started trying to build it instead. We're not the same people we were when we got married and thank God for that. We've grown, sideways, inward, upward. Through therapy, through hard conversations, through forgiveness that didn't come easy but came anyway.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
I turned to Thomas, the fading gold of the sunset casting soft lines across his face. He was watching me, gentle and open in a way that still sometimes caught me off guard. My heart fluttered.
I smiled, eyes misting. "That was a beautiful ceremony. I can't believe my baby is a married man."
"I know," he murmured, his voice tight with emotion. "I'm so proud of them. Of him. I just... I hope he becomes a better husband than I ever was."