Three months before my husband Colin’s 40th birthday, I found the watch.
I was supposed to be folding laundry, pairing socks that would somehow disappear again by next week. Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed with my laptop open, scrolling through a site I’d bookmarked months earlier. And there it was — the same brand he’d once paused to admire in a store window, pressing his hand lightly to the glass like it was something just out of reach.
This one had a deep navy face, stainless steel band, clean lines. Elegant enough for his business dinners, rugged enough for weekends. It looked like him — polished, confident, composed.
“You’re perfect,” I whispered to the screen.
I saved the listing and closed the laptop when I heard footsteps upstairs.
Colin never knew what I was doing at night in the den. He thought I was watching shows or reading. He never asked. After dinner, after homework, after baths and packing lunches for the next day, I opened my computer again — not for entertainment, but for work.
I’d started tutoring online more than a year earlier. A few high school students struggling with essays. A college freshman panicking about her thesis. It wasn’t glamorous, and it wasn’t much money at first. But I saved every payment. Quietly. Carefully. I opened a small side account he didn’t know about.
The watch cost me more than the price tag. It cost sleep. It cost patience. It cost hours carved out of an already full day.
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