The Quiet Proof I Didn’t Know I Needed: A Supermarket Aisle and the Shape of Love
When my husband grabbed his keys and headed for the door that afternoon, it felt like any other small, forgettable moment stitched into the middle of an ordinary day. The house hummed softly around me—the refrigerator clicking on and off, the faint rustle of curtains shifting with the breeze from a half-open window.
I was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room when it occurred to me that we were low on sanitary pads.
“Hey,” I called after him, my voice following the sound of the door opening. “Can you pick up pads while you’re out?”
He paused, one hand still on the knob, already halfway outside. “Sure,” he said easily, without the hesitation I half-expected.
As soon as the door closed behind him, I felt that familiar tightening in my chest—an instinctive bracing. I’d been through this before.
In my mind, I could already picture my phone lighting up with a flurry of messages: photos taken too quickly, labels cut off, shelves blurred by motion. I imagined the inevitable phone call, his voice slightly strained, asking, “Is it this one? Or this one? Wait, what does ‘regular’ mean again?”
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