We Don’t Keep Score: The Marriage That Runs on Generosity

“Our relationship isn’t equal,” he begins, adding four exclamation marks. “Shall we start with me? Let’s put everything on the table, quickly and painfully: I don’t cook at all at home,” more exclamation marks. “I’m so detached from the kitchen that I only know what we’re having for Shabbat dinner when the food is actually served at the table, just like that.

“Our Relationship Isn’t Equal”

My wife doesn’t know our bank code. She has no idea how much mortgage we have, what our financial situation looks like, or who our bank manager is, let alone her phone number. If there’s ever a problem, the bank will never call her. My wife technically knows how much she earns, but that’s by coincidence. She doesn’t check her payslip because it doesn’t interest her. She doesn’t know how much the house cost, doesn’t know there’s an Excel sheet tracking everything, and doesn’t know what’s in it.

Two Worlds Under One Roof

I don’t do grocery shopping. I might run to the store quickly, but I have no idea what’s actually going on in the pantry or the fridge. I’ve never replaced my own body wash. When she showers, she checks the bottle, and when it’s empty she leaves it upside down for me to finish the last drops like a good boy, and the next day it magically gets replaced. She somehow always knows when I’m about to run out of deodorant and buys me a new one. There are always band-aids at home. I have no idea how. I don’t know how to use the washing machine. I can hang laundry, but only in emergencies.

My wife doesn’t open official envelopes from government offices. It stresses her out. She doesn’t deal with bureaucracy, National Insurance, income tax, land administration, or property matters. She knows we needed a building permit, but she has no idea how to navigate that nightmare, what Form 4 is, or how exhausting the whole process is. That’s me. Mortgage rates, case structures, pensions, insurance. She doesn’t even know we have mortgage insurance. She doesn’t know whether a thousand shekels is a lot or a little. Bless her.

On September 1st I leave the school WhatsApp groups. Not for me. I don’t remember white shirt days, trips, or schedules. I’m not in the parents’ groups or extracurricular groups. I don’t have the phone numbers of our kids’ friends’ parents. I don’t handle playdates. If someone asks me to return something, I do it.

I get messages from the bank and government. She gets messages from teachers. Fair enough. She doesn’t know who her car insurance agent is. She’s never renewed a policy. I take her car for inspections while she naps. She doesn’t know if something was fixed, if tires were replaced, if the wipers were changed. And she manages just fine. She doesn’t know when the car needs maintenance or what that even means. I take care of it and return it to her in good condition.

The Score We Never Keep

I know what you’re thinking. Gendered roles. Victims of society. Patriarchy. No choice. I’ve heard it all. Should I go on?

If there’s a problem with the neighbors, I handle it. If there’s a leak, I handle it. Repairs, maintenance, lawyers’ letters. That’s me. She makes sure the floor is swept because dust bothers her. She manages the cleaning and coordinates with the cleaner. She makes sure there’s a dessert that will delight everyone on Friday night. I make sure the house is safe. She cares that things are pleasant.

But none of this is what makes our relationship unequal.

Love That Isn’t Measured

What makes it unequal is that I don’t count who does more. I don’t measure effort. I don’t keep score. The thing that brings me the greatest joy is coming home more tired than she is, so she can rest before the kids return. I love walking in exhausted and seeing her refreshed, smiling, present for the children, giving them her full heart. And she loves spoiling me with a pot of warm soup.

It may not be equal. But I live it with such fullness, such peace, and such love, that all the definitions simply lose their relevance.