My Husband Laughed at the Anniversary Dinner I Spe…

Just one mug. For seven years, I’d made coffee for both of us. I’d measured out the beans, ground them, set up the machine the night before so Derek could hit “start” when he woke up.

I’d packed his lunches, left sticky notes with little hearts on them. All those small kindnesses he dismissed as “corny” or “extra.”

Not today. When he stumbled into the kitchen at 7:15, hair sticking up, face creased with pillow lines, I was already at the table with my laptop open, black coffee cooling beside me.

He blinked at me like I was an unfamiliar piece of furniture. “You’re up early,” he mumbled, opening the fridge and staring into it as if breakfast might materialize out of air and leftover Thai food. “Where’s breakfast?”

“I didn’t make any,” I said.

He turned to look at me fully for the first time, confusion wrinkling his brow. “You feeling okay?”