I sewed my husband's buttons on for fourteen years. He could not thread a needle, or so he claimed. He would try, sigh, tie a knot in the wrong place, and leave the shirt on a chair. I would finish it while we watched television. It was quicker than listening to him grumble, which gradually became the explanation for many chores in our home.
One Thursday I came home early because a meeting had been canceled. Damir sat at the kitchen table sewing a torn pocket on his fishing bag. His movements were small and assured. Beside him lay scissors, two needles, and neatly cut pieces of fabric. He did not hear me until I put down my keys. Then his hand remained raised, thread hanging between his fingers.
First he said this was different. Then he said a friend had shown him last weekend. I looked at the stitching, then at the photograph of his mother on the shelf. She had been a seamstress. I remembered her mentioning once that both sons helped her while they were at school. Damir had changed the subject. I forgot that small detail, along with many other things that did not seem worth an argument.
I did not shout. I sat and asked what else he only failed to know while I was present. Offended, he said I was exaggerating over a button. For him the problem was one small round thing. For me, all the evenings spent finishing tasks he theatrically abandoned suddenly came alive. I did not know how often he had really been clumsy and how often merely patient enough to wait for me to take over.
That evening I left his clean shirt on the same chair, without a button. He asked whether we now needed to keep records of every little thing. I said no records were necessary. He needed to consider his trousers, shirts, and sports bags his own belongings even when they required repairs. He disliked that I mentioned the fishing bag last.
Over the following days he often performed tasks more loudly than before, ensuring I noticed. I deliberately did not praise a washed plate. He had never called me from another room to congratulate me on locating the laundry detergent either. We were unpleasant to each other for almost a whole week. Nevertheless, he gradually stopped asking where objects he had seen for years were kept.
A month later a strap broke on my canvas bag. Damir picked up a needle, then paused and asked whether I wanted him to mend it. I handed him the bag. His stitching was better than mine. That angered me a little more, then made me laugh sincerely. While he sewed, I finished the episode of a series I had previously always only listened to.