For months, every time my period came, half my pads were missing. I blamed my sister, blamed bad memory, blamed everything except the truth. She kept swearing it wasn’t her, and I honestly thought I was losing my mind.

Then yesterday, I came home early.

From the bathroom, I heard my husband whispering, panicked:
“Crap, crap, crap…”

I opened the door — and froze.

There he was, kneeling on the floor, trying to neatly stack pads like they were fragile artifacts, reading the label with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb. He looked up at me, wide-eyed, caught red-handed.

Before I could even speak, he blurted out the whole story.

One of his female coworkers sometimes struggles during long shifts. She’d mentioned how embarrassing it was to get caught unprepared. So my husband, in the most adorably awkward way, started keeping a small “emergency kit” at work — just in case someone needed help.

He didn’t tell me because he didn’t want it to sound weird or make me uncomfortable. He just wanted to be kind. Quietly. Respectfully.

And yes… he’d been borrowing mine.

We sat on the bathroom floor laughing until our sides hurt. I told him next time to just ask so I could buy extra. That evening, he came home with two giant boxes — one for home, one for his “kit.”

It wasn’t a romantic moment or a grand gesture.

But it reminded me that love often shows up in small, awkward acts of pure intention.