On January 3, 2026, my husband and I celebrated our wedding anniversary at Outback, an annual tradition started on our wedding night 13 years before.
We did a lot of talking and laughing that night, as was usual. Made plans for our future, including Jags and Cubs games, my nephew’s wedding in North Carolina, and what life would look like when our youngest graduated next year.
We had a lot to be grateful for, including the solidity of our relationship. Was it free of difficult times? Of course not. But did our good days far outnumber our bad ones? Exponentially.
Every year, I asked, “If there was one thing you could change about me, what would it be?” He rolled his eyes and chuckled, said some variant of, “I’m not falling into that trap.” I asked in part because his reaction was adorable. But I also needed reassurance that he not only accepted and loved me, but that he would tell me if I was coming up short.
This year, I really wanted an answer. I had concerns about his frequent low moods and his growing frustration with our teenager’s inability to clean up. It was the only recurring disagreement we’d had in our 16-year relationship. And if there was something I was doing or not doing that could help ease whatever was eating at him, I was more than willing to change what I could. He meant that much to me.
But I never got the answer that night.
That came later.
Because while we were celebrating our marriage, toasting the years behind and all to come, replaying memories and making new ones; while I gazed into the eyes of the man I knew with all my heart would always sit across the table, I was blind to one glaring truth.
He had already checked out.