As the year draws to a close, I find myself thinking about all the things that are so often left unsaid.

Usually, when I sit down in front of my typing machine — a weary old laptop, proof that not all writers are rich — I arrive with a topic already in mind. This morning was no different. It’s the day before New Year’s Eve. I’d just returned from a long run, my thoughts loose and drifting, when I sat down to write.

And then I noticed her.

My wife moved quietly through the room, going about her chores, smiling, humming a tune that will undoubtedly live rent-free in my head for days. I watched her with a soft, foolish smile of my own. A thought rose uninvited, and I bit my lip just in time before asking it out loud:

Do you feel appreciated?

I often wonder. But I know if I asked, she would simply say yes — and move on. She is one of those rare, unselfish people who care deeply for themselves and for those around them. For me. For our furry companion, Benji, who lies faithfully at my feet as I work.

I, on the other hand, am a creature of validation. Writers tend to be. We revise endlessly, seek reassurance, chase perfection, and ask the world to tell us we did well. I edit my manuscripts three times before compiling them. I ask friends and family for feedback. I redesign covers for hours, only to scrap them and begin again. It’s a constant search for confirmation — with very little room left for appreciation.

A book cover has never hugged me back. Or kissed me. Though I confess I’ve shown them plenty of affection… and yes, even sniffed their insides. There. I said it.

And yet, despite my comfort with words, I struggle to articulate my appreciation for my wife. It’s a clumsy paradox. I build worlds on the page, but the simplest expressions of gratitude often escape me. Perhaps the feeling is too vast for language. Or perhaps I fear that words will never measure up to what she gives so effortlessly.

Even now, as I write, she sits opposite me, humming softly while working through our monthly budget. I think about how she makes it all work. Food. Rent. Dog food. Electricity. Water. Fuel. Medical insurance. The bare necessities, growing heavier under inflation’s steady climb. And still, she manages. Month after month.

I eat like a king because she knows how to marry ingredients. With what little remains, she buys us clothes. Sometimes even a lovely pair of shoes. Few people know this — and most readers don’t — but writers receive their royalties only every third month. In between, she is the quiet force that keeps our world upright.

As I prepare for yet another round of edits, I realize something important. My greatest story may never be printed. It may live instead in daily acts of gratitude. In acknowledgements spoken aloud. In love made tangible.

I find myself thanking the heavens for women. What a remarkable species they are. Providers. Strategists. Caretakers. Warriors. In comparison, I know how much I still have to learn about unselfishness.

The minutes tick by as the year edges toward its end. Tonight, when I raise a glass at midnight, I wonder if she will know just how deeply she is appreciated.

I hope she does.

My Cinderella — your missing slipper is in my hand. And for the record, I know it was the left one you lost. I’m coming for you. Hold fast. Your prince is learning how to show his gratitude properly… before the clock strikes twelve.

Tick tock.