When I first noticed my wife drawing strange tally marks on her hand, I shrugged it off as just one of her quirky habits. But as those marks multiplied and her answers stayed cryptic, I began to realize there was something much darker underneath the surface of our seemingly happy marriage.

“Married life is great, right?” I’d tell my friends whenever they asked. And for the most part, it really was. Sarah and I had only been married for a few months, and I was still adjusting to my new role as a husband. My wife, Sarah, was always so organized, so thoughtful—she had a way of making everything look effortless.

But then, something shifted. I started to notice a strange habit of hers. One day, she took a pen out of her purse and made a small tally mark on the back of her hand. I didn’t think much of it at first.

“Did you just mark your hand?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

She smiled, a little amused. “Just a reminder,” she replied.

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

Over the next few weeks, she did it more and more. Some days, there’d be just one or two tally marks. Other days, I’d see five or even more. Then there were days with no marks at all. It seemed random, but it started bothering me. What on earth was she keeping track of?

The more I noticed it, the more I started to worry. It felt like she was keeping a secret from me—something that was slowly eroding the happiness in our marriage.

One night, I couldn’t take it any longer.

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

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

“Remember what?” I pressed.

“It’s just… things,” she said, brushing me off as if it were nothing. “Don’t worry about it.”

But I did worry. A lot. I started paying closer attention to when she marked her hand. She’d do it after dinner, after we argued, after we watched a movie. There was no discernible pattern, but it haunted me. What was she counting?

One evening, I counted the marks on her hand—seven in total. That night, I watched as she transferred them into a small notebook on her bedside table. She had no idea I was watching.

The next morning, while she was in the shower, I decided to check that notebook. I flipped through the pages, my curiosity getting the better of me. Each page was filled with rows and rows of tally marks. I counted them—68 in total.

I sat on the bed, staring at the notebook in my hands. What could this number possibly mean? What was she counting?

A few days later, I tried asking her again.

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

She sighed, visibly annoyed. “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. The tally marks started feeling like a wall between us. Every time I saw her make a new one, it was like she was adding another brick, locking me out.

I became obsessed with the number 68. What was so significant about it? I found myself walking on eggshells around her, terrified of giving her a reason to add another mark. But no matter what I did, the marks still appeared.

One night, after another tense argument, I watched as she added four new tally marks. I needed to know what was happening. I needed to understand what was going on before it tore us apart. But I had no idea how to get the truth out of her—and that scared me more than anything.

I was so consumed by this obsession that I decided to leave for a few days, hoping it might change something. But when I returned, I saw that the tally count had grown to 78.

The marks were eating me alive. I needed a break, some kind of distraction. So, when Sarah suggested we visit her mother, I welcomed the idea. Maybe it would help me take my mind off of things.

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

As I walked past the guest bedroom, something caught my eye. There, on the nightstand, was a notebook that looked exactly like Sarah’s. I hesitated for a moment but stepped inside, my curiosity getting the better of me. I opened the notebook with trembling hands. It was filled with tally marks, just like Sarah’s. But there was more—next to each tally were labels: “interrupting,” “raising voice,” “forgetting to call.” Each tally had a label as if tracking mistakes.

“What the hell is this?” I muttered under my breath.

A chill ran down my spine. Was this some sort of family tradition? Was Sarah’s mom also counting her mistakes?

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

“You okay?” she asked, a concerned look on her face.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied. “Just thinking about work.”

We stayed for another hour, but I was hardly present. My thoughts kept drifting back to that notebook.

On the drive home, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

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

“What’s up?” she replied, puzzled.

“I saw your mom’s notebook today. It looked a lot like yours. Are you both keeping track of your mistakes?”

There was a moment of silence before she let out a bitter laugh. “You think I’m counting my mistakes?”

“Well, yeah,” I said, feeling relieved that she was finally opening up. “You don’t have to be so hard on yourself.”

She shook her head, staring out the window. “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 don’t listen, when you promise to do something and don’t. I’ve been keeping track since our wedding day.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “You’re counting my mistakes? Why?”

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

The shock left me speechless. Our marriage, it seemed, was on the line. And I had no idea it had gotten this bad.

The next day, in an effort to turn things around, I bought a new notebook. This one wasn’t for tally marks—it was for us to fill with good memories and happy moments. Together, we made our first entry that night, writing about a quiet dinner we shared, laughing like we hadn’t in months.

Over time, the tally marks disappeared, replaced by stories of joy and gratitude. The notebook became a symbol of a new beginning—one that focused on love and growth. And for the first time in a long while, we were finally on the same page, ready to move forward together.