He keeps asking me the same question
And what it’s slowly changing in me.
“What are the three responsibilities?” my husband asks. He doesn’t even look at me when he says it. Just keeps walking. But I know he’s smiling.
He never asks it at a normal time. Not when we are sitting across from each other at the table. Not in the middle of a conversation where it would make sense. It’s always when I’m about to fall asleep, or halfway through something else, or just trying to enjoy a quiet walk.
“What are the three responsibilities?”
I used to roll my eyes.
“I’m not a child,” I told him once. “You don’t have to make me recite things.”
He didn’t argue. He never does. Just waits. It’s his way. Not pushing exactly, but not letting it go. He thinks this is the difference between drifting and choosing.
“What are the three responsibilities?” he asks again.
Sometimes I don’t answer.
I’ll walk a full mile without acknowledging it. Because he’s asked it 97 times. Because I’ve answered it just as many. Because I still don’t really understand why he does it.
And honestly, part of me thinks he does it because it annoys me.
But he waits. So now I answer.
Personal.
Communal.
Moral.
I say it quickly, like I’m checking a box. Like I’ve said it so many times it barely feels like a thought anymore. Small checkmarks next to each one. Done. Done. Done. But somehow, it’s stuck.
Not in some clean, organized way. Not like I’m walking around applying a framework to my life. It just shows up. Usually right when I don’t want it to.
I’m not someone who likes confrontation. I avoid it when I can. But I’ve started to notice that responsibility and confrontation are kind of tied together.
At work, when something goes wrong, my instinct is to explain it. To point out all the moving parts. To make sure it’s clear it wasn’t entirely on me. And then it hits - personal. And now I’ll say, I played a role in that. And then I’ll offer up a solution, because I know that’s what will actually help.
With my kids, I lose patience more than I’d like to admit. I snap. I rush them. I use a tone I don’t love. And later, I go back. I’ll sit with them and say, I’m sorry. I didn’t handle that well. Not because I’ve figured anything out. Just because it feels wrong not to.
Even in the middle of a fight, when I’m fully convinced I’m right, I can feel it creep in.
Communal.
Moral.
And sometimes I can stop. Not always. Not cleanly. But enough to notice that I had a part in getting us there.
These aren’t big moments. They’re small. A little uncomfortable. Easy to skip over. But they keep happening.
“What did you take responsibility for today?” I asked him recently at dinner. Just throwing it back at him. It started as a joke. I wanted to get a rise out of him. But he answered. And then I did too.
And now it happens sometimes. Not every night. Not in any structured way. Just a quick check-in. I still don’t love the question. It’s still annoying. Still repetitive. Still asked right when I don’t want it to. But now I catch myself before he even says it.
Right in the middle of a moment. Right when I’m about to explain something away or defend myself. And it’s already there.
Personal.
Communal.
Moral.
I guess it worked.