Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

She was trying to open a can of tomatoes when the lid slipped and cut her palm.

It was small — a thin, stinging line across the heel of her hand — but Mara gasped and immediately started doing what she always did: minimizing. “It’s nothing. Don’t.” She was already heading to the sink.

But Jonah was already up.

He didn’t make a fuss. That was the thing about him — he didn’t hover or dramatize or ask too many questions. He simply guided her gently to the bathroom, held her hand under cool water for the right amount of time, dried it carefully, and found the antiseptic without having to open more than one cabinet.

“I know where everything is,” he said, mostly to himself.

“You should. You put the plasters in the wrong spot when we reorganized.”

“The wrong spot according to whom?”

“According to the person who has the kitchen accidents.”

He laughed, low and warm, and pressed the plaster gently onto her palm. He held her hand a moment after — not dramatically, just the way you hold something you’re checking on.

“You okay?”

Mara looked at him. His face was close. He was doing that thing where he looked directly at her and didn’t look away, the thing that had undone her completely the first time he’d done it two years ago.

Care, she thought, is often quiet. It doesn’t announce itself. It just shows up with the plasters and holds your hand until the sting is gone.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m okay.”

He kissed her forehead and went back to finish making dinner.

She stood in the bathroom a moment longer, her hand warm where he’d held it.

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✦  Today’s Reflection

When was the last time your partner took care of you in a small, practical way — and did you let them?