At first, when I saw my wife making strange tally marks on her hand, I shrugged it off as one of her quirky habits. But as those marks began to multiply, and her answers remained vague, I realized there was something much darker beneath the surface of our seemingly happy marriage.

“Married life is great, right?” I’d tell my friends when they asked. And honestly, it was—at least, for the most part. Sarah and I had only been married for a few months, and I was still adjusting to the whole husband role. Sarah, with her organized nature and thoughtfulness, made everything seem effortless.

But eventually, something changed. I started noticing a peculiar habit. One day, she casually pulled a pen out of her purse and drew a small tally mark on the back of her hand. At first, I didn’t think much of it.

“Did you just mark your hand?” I asked, a bit curious.

She smiled and shrugged. “Just a reminder.”

“A reminder for what?” I laughed, thinking it was just a joke. But she didn’t elaborate. Instead, she changed the subject.

Over the next few weeks, I noticed her doing it more often. Some days, there would be one or two tally marks. Other days, five or more. And then there were days when there were none at all. It seemed random, but it started to bother me. What exactly was she tracking?

The more I saw it, the more uneasy I became. It was like she was keeping a secret from me, and that secret was slowly eating away at our happiness.

One night, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Sarah, what’s with the tally marks?” I asked as we were getting ready for bed. “You’re doing it all the time now.”

She looked at the marks on her hand and then at me with that same mysterious smile. “It helps me remember things, that’s all.”

“Remember what?” I pressed.

“It’s just… things,” she said, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Don’t worry about it.”

But I did worry. A lot. I started paying more attention. She’d make a mark after dinner. After we argued. After we watched a movie. There was no pattern I could see, but it made me anxious.

One evening, I counted the marks on her hand: there were seven. Later that night, I watched her transfer those marks into a small notebook she kept by her bedside table. She didn’t know I was watching.

The next morning, I couldn’t resist the urge any longer. I waited until she was in the shower and then opened her notebook. Each page was filled with rows of tally marks. I counted—68 in total.

I sat there, staring at the notebook. What could this number mean? What was she counting?

A few days later, I asked her again.

“Sarah, please, tell me what those marks are for. It’s driving me crazy.”

She sighed, clearly irritated. “I already told you—it’s just something I do. It helps me remember.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” I snapped. “What are you remembering? Are you keeping track of something? Someone?”

“Just drop it, okay?” she said, her voice sharp. She looked at me, her eyes almost pleading. “Please, just let it go.”

But I couldn’t let it go. Those tally marks became a wall between us. Every time I saw her make a new one, it felt like she was building another layer, shutting me out.

I became obsessed with the number 68. What was so important about it? I even started being extra careful around her, almost like I was scared of giving her a reason to add another mark. But no matter what I did, the marks kept appearing.

One night, after another tense conversation, I watched her add four new marks. I needed to know what was happening. I had to figure this out before it drove me insane. But I had no idea how to get the truth out of her, and that scared me more than anything.

Eventually, I decided to leave for a few days, hoping it would change things. When I returned, the tally count had grown to 78.

It was eating me alive. I needed a break from it, but everywhere I looked, I saw her hand with those little black lines, taunting me. When Sarah suggested we visit her mother, I thought it would be a good distraction.

Her mother, Diane, and her husband Jake lived in a cozy suburban home. It was a typical visit—tea, cookies, and small talk. Sarah and Diane were in the kitchen, chatting and laughing. I excused myself to use the bathroom.

On my way back, I noticed a notebook on the nightstand in the guest bedroom. It looked just like Sarah’s. Curiosity got the better of me. I opened it, and my hands started trembling. The pages were filled with tally marks, just like Sarah’s. But next to each tally, there were labels: “interrupting,” “raising voice,” “forgetting to call.” It was like they were keeping track of mistakes.

“What the hell is this?” I whispered, feeling a chill run down my spine.

Was this some kind of family tradition? Were they both holding themselves—or their partners—to these impossible standards?

I closed the notebook and returned to the living room, trying to act normal. But my mind was spinning. Sarah noticed my unease.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied.

On the drive home, I couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“Sarah, I need to ask you something,” I said, gripping the steering wheel.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I saw your mom’s notebook today. Are you both counting your mistakes? You don’t have to be perfect, you know.”

After a long silence, she let out a bitter laugh. “You think I’m counting my mistakes?”

“Well, yeah,” I said, relieved she was finally opening up. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

She shook her head. “I’m not counting my mistakes, Jack. I’m counting yours.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. “What?”

“Every time you break one of your vows, I make a mark,” she said quietly. “When you interrupt me, when you forget something, when you let me down. I’ve been keeping track since our wedding day.”

I felt my heart sink. “You’re counting my mistakes? Why?”

“Because I need to know when enough is enough,” she said, her voice breaking. “When you reach 1,000 marks, I’m leaving.”

The weight of her words was unbearable. I wanted to be angry, but I knew I had been careless. I had let her down.

The next day, I bought a new notebook—one for us to fill with happy memories. Slowly, we started fresh. The tally marks were replaced with stories of joy, love, and laughter. And finally, we were on the same page, ready to rebuild.