I’m writing this in a motel parking lot, halfway through a 12-hour drive to beg my wife for another chance. I don’t know if she’ll even open the door, but I have to try. Emma and I were married for nine years. I was the guy who thought love was a checklist: flowers on Valentine’s Day, a nice house, a shared Netflix account. But I was terrible at the real stuff—the listening, the showing up, the choosing her over everything else. Last year, she begged me to take a weekend trip for our anniversary. I promised I would. But two days before, my boss scheduled a “critical” Zoom meeting. I canceled the Airbnb. “Next year,” I said, handing her a gift card to her favorite spa. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. The next month, she started staying late at work. “Book club,” she’d say, but her books never left the shelf. I shrugged it off. Then, in March, I found a receipt in her jacket pocket: dinner for two at a restaurant I’d never heard of. My stomach dropped, but when I confronted her, she just sighed. “It’s not an affair. It’s just… someone who listens.” I yelled. She cried. I slept on the couch. A week later, she asked for a separation. “I’ve been lonely for years,” she said. “You’re here, but you’re never here.” I accused her of being ungrateful. Threw my salary in her face. Told her she’d regret it. She didn’t. The day she moved out, I found a shoebox under our bed. Inside: movie stubs from films I’d fallen asleep during, a dried rose from our first date, and a stack of sticky notes. “Leftovers in the fridge.” “Don’t forget the dog’s meds.” “I love you. Call me when you’re free.” The last one, dated three days before she left, said: “Please see me.” I didn’t. For months, I doubled down. Told friends she’d “lost herself.” Dated a coworker to prove I was fine. But last week, I passed our old favorite ice cream shop and saw her through the window—laughing with a friend, hair down, wearing a dress I hadn’t seen in years. She looked… alive. Like the woman I’d married. I broke down in my car. Called my brother, who said what everyone else was too polite to: “You treated her like a backup plan. You deserve this.” He’s right. So here I am, driving through the night with that shoebox on the passenger seat. I don’t know what I’ll say. Maybe start with: “I’m sorry I made you feel small. Sorry I chose work over your grandpa’s funeral. Sorry I forgot you hated lilies.” Mostly, I’m sorry it took losing her to realize love isn’t a checklist—it’s a thousand tiny choices, every day. TL;DR: Prioritized work and ego over my wife for years. Now I’m racing to apologize before the divorce is final. — A man who finally woke up (Share if you’ve ever taken love for granted. And if you’re reading this while scrolling during date night… look up. Before it’s too late.)