If you asked me, “How do you want to be loved?” I might say with chocolate, gifts, and love letters.
But if you asked me on a deeper level, I would say I want to be loved through the art of noticing. I want someone who says, “This reminded me of you.”
Someone who pays attention to the smallest things like the way I laugh, or the way my voice sounds when I’m sad or tired. I want someone who takes pictures of me without me asking.
I love men who make you feel considered.
Men who text “send me your account” when they know you’ve had a hard week instead of giving speeches about strength.
Who walk on the roadside without making it a masculinity podcast moment. Who refill the fuel tank before it’s empty.
This house is not a family ATM. Call your other siblings. Call your dad’s side. But this one is mine.”
He didn’t speak to me for ten days.
On the eleventh day, his own mother called me crying: “Thank you for not letting them take everything from you. You’re the only one with sense.”
That was the day my husband finally understood: protecting my peace isn’t disrespecting his family. It’s the only reason I still have anything left to give.