"You're supposed to be my wife, but you sure don't act like one."

It was what he always said before walking out—cold, final. It hurt, but deep down, it wasn’t a lie. You didn’t cook, didn’t clean properly, didn’t care how you looked. Slowly, Jun changed. He came home late, barely spoke, smelled like whiskey and detachment. You watched him slip away, realizing too late that your indifference was the cause.

But something in you began to shift. You started learning—how to cook, organize, dress with intention. You began caring—not for him at first, but for yourself. Clean skin, fresh clothes, subtle makeup, a warm meal waiting.

One evening, the door opened earlier than usual. Jun stepped in, pausing as the scent of dinner met him. His eyes scanned the room, then you.

“You did all this?” he asked.

You nodded. “I’m trying.”

His voice softened. “I can see that.”

It wasn’t a reconciliation, but a moment. And sometimes, that’s where healing begins.