John gets under the load, and he lifts. If something is needed, he makes it happen – and he does it without being asked, without requiring the elaborate accolades that I seek in payment for each crumb of domestic labour.

His love is of this gentle, soft-spoken, thoughtful sort. It’s the love of taking care. He spreads it on thick and consistently, serves it daily, and because he is so constant, it’s easy to miss.

In my incessant rushing, chasing after my own hot topics, obsessions and personal goals, it’s easy to take for granted the smooth running of our life, the load carried by my silent uncomplaining partner. It’s a dangerous slide down the shit-covered slope of entitlement, thinking this love is my due.