The Letter to Your Wife She Has Been Waiting Ten Years to Read

You are winning at work and quietly losing at home. You know it. She knows it. The kids feel it but can't name it. You don't need a weekend in Sedona. You don't need a couples retreat. You don't need to read another book about love languages. You need to sit down at the kitchen table on a Tuesday night and hand your wife a letter you wrote with a pen. Why a letter, and not a conversation Because conversations with your wife about your marriage end the same way every time. You explain. She cries. You defend. She shuts down. You sleep on opposite sides of the bed and call it fine. A letter takes the explanation off the table. You don't get to defend a letter. You read it. She reads it. The words sit on the page where you can't take them back. That's the point. What goes in it Four paragraphs. No more. No bullet points. No "babe." No emojis. Paragraph one — name what you've cost her. Not the big things. The small ones. The nights you came home and went straight to the garage. The text she sent at 2 p.m. that you didn't answer until 9. The Christmas her mother died and you booked a work trip the next week. Paragraph two — name what she did anyway. While you were absent, she was carrying. The pediatrician calls. The school emails. The grocery list. The friend group. The version of you the kids still believe in. Name it. Specifically. Paragraph three — name what changes now. Not someday. Not "I'll try." This week. Phone down at 6. Date night Friday, you book it. One real fifteen-minute conversation every day, no kids, no screens. Paragraph four — ask for nothing. No "do you forgive me." No "are we okay." Just: You don't have to say anything back. I just needed you to know I see it. How to deliver it After the kids are asleep. At the kitchen table. With the TV off. You read it out loud. Slowly. You don't watch her face. You watch the page. When you're done, you slide it across to her. You stand up. You wash a dish. You give her the room. She might cry. She might not. She might say nothing for two days. She might say "thank you" and go to bed. You don't get to control that part. Your job ended when you put the pen down. What changes in the next thirty days Most of the men I know who have done this exercise tell me the same three things: she leaves the letter on her nightstand. She reads it again on a hard day. And at some point in the next month, she reaches for his hand without him asking. You did not buy that with the letter. You bought it with the man who was finally willing to write it. --- Get the workbook that walks you through every paragraph The Marriage & Family Workbook is the 14-day plan that takes "we're roommates" and turns it back into we're a marriage. The Contempt Audit. The exact letter template, paragraph by paragraph. The daily 15-minute conversation script. Family dinner protocol. One-on-one time with each child by age. 48 pages. $19. One-time. Get The Marriage & Family Workbook →