When I collapsed on my husband’s driveway carrying his birthday brisket, he didn’t run to help me—he looked down, rolled his eyes, and said, “Seriously, Judith, get up.” His mother called me dramatic, the guests stepped back, and while a football-shaped cake waited in the backyard, one bitter detail I had ignored for five months suddenly began to fit into a much darker picture. - usnews

The doctor ordered blood work. The results were not back yet when I hit the driveway.

One more thing about those five months. My evening tea.

I had been drinking chamomile tea before bed for years. About five months before the collapse, it started tasting slightly different. Not bad, just off. A faint bitterness that had not been there before. I mentioned it to Leo. He said he had switched brands because the old one went up in price. That made sense. I shrugged it off.

For those entire five months, Leo made that tea for me every single night. Never missed a night. I had thought, at the time, that this was sweet. My husband, who had forgotten our anniversary twice and could not remember to buy milk without a text prompt, somehow never once forgot my evening tea. I thought it was his love language.

His love language was something I could not have imagined.