That weekend, Sarah suggested we visit her mother’s house, and I agreed, hoping a change of scenery might help me understand things better. While we were there, I stumbled upon another notebook, much like Sarah’s. Inside, it was filled with similar tally marks, each one labeled with words like “interrupting,” “forgetting plans,” “not listening.”
A chill ran down my spine. Was this some kind of habit passed down from her family?
On the way home, I finally brought it up. “Sarah,” I began carefully, “I saw your mom’s notebook. Are you counting your mistakes? You don’t need to be so hard on yourself.”
She let out a short laugh. “You think I’m counting my mistakes?”
I glanced at her, confused. “Aren’t you?”
“No,” she said quietly. “I’m counting yours.”
Her words hit me hard. “What?”
“Every time you break a promise or interrupt me, I make a mark,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “When you don’t listen, when you say you’ll do something and don’t follow through—I’ve been keeping track since our wedding day.”
My heart sank. “You’ve been counting my mistakes?”
She nodded. “I need to know when I’ve had enough. When the tally reaches 1,000, I’m leaving.”
Her words left me stunned. I pulled over to the side of the road, trying to comprehend what she had just said. “You’re counting my mistakes… so you’ll know when to leave?”
“They’re not just mistakes,” she said softly. “They’re broken promises. You made vows, and you’ve been breaking them ever since.”
The weight of her words hit me like a wave. I had taken her for granted, dismissing her concerns as small or unimportant. But to her, they were significant—significant enough to count.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The next morning, desperate for advice, I called Sarah’s mother.
“I found out what Sarah’s been doing,” I said. “Why didn’t you stop her?”
Her mother sighed. “I used to do the same thing with her father. I thought keeping track of wrongs would help me know when to walk away. But it only made things worse. Now, I focus on counting the good moments instead—the times he shows kindness. It changed everything.”
Her words gave me hope. Maybe it wasn’t too late.
That evening, Sarah came home with tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around me. “I didn’t realize how much this was hurting us.”
I held her tight, relieved. “Let’s stop keeping score,” I suggested softly. “Let’s start over.”
The next day, I bought a new notebook, but instead of tallying mistakes, we began filling it with moments of happiness and love. Our first entry? A simple dinner where we laughed together, something we hadn’t done in months.
As the pages filled with joy and gratitude, the tally marks became a distant memory, and we started to rebuild our marriage—one moment of love at a time.