I used to fold his shirts with care—smoothing the sleeves, aligning the collar, pressing out the creases like I was ironing out our problems. It was a quiet ritual, a small act of love that felt like devotion. But over time, the fabric softened while our bond frayed. The shirt stayed the same. He didn’t.
I folded his shirt the morning he forgot our anniversary. I folded it again after he dismissed my dreams as “just phases.” I folded it after every silence, every shrug, every moment he chose convenience over connection. And each time, I tucked away a little more of myself.
The final fold came quietly. No shouting, no slammed doors. Just a realization: I had been folding my marriage into smaller and smaller pieces, trying to make it fit into a space it no longer belonged. I had been shrinking myself to preserve something that no longer preserved me.
So I folded his shirt one last time. Not out of love, but closure. I placed it gently in a box, alongside the version of me that once believed love meant endurance. That morning, I didn’t just fold fabric—I folded the chapter where I kept waiting for him to notice, to change, to choose me.
And then I unfolded something new: my voice, my worth, my future.
