Thank-you cards are her religion. We keep a constant supply. She writes out hundreds of them.

“Thanks for the homegrown tomatoes,” she might write. “Thank you for inviting us to supper last week.” Or: “I appreciate the root canal, good dentists are hard to come by.”

She also has a stack of stationary with my name on it. She writes thank-yous for me, too.

“Why don’t you ever write thank-yous?” she asks.

I shrug, pleading incompetency.

Then, in my proxy, she sits down to write: “Thanks for not taking me to court, I’m sorry I sideswiped your passenger-mirror. Here’s two hundred dollars.”

And I lick the stamp.

My wife also makes our coffee every morning. The perfect strength and color. I usually wake up after her. When I stumble into the kitchen, there it is. And this means a lot to me.

Because whenever I make the coffee, it tastes like industrial pump lubricant.

She vacuums three times per week. Ellie Mae, our coonhound—the reason why we vacuum—thinks this is play. Lots of barking, tail-wagging, and general feelings of canine euphoria make housework difficult.

You want more? Jamie changes the sheets. Does laundry. Dusts. Mops. She makes chicken salad, tuna salad, pear salad, coleslaw, collards, pound cake, and a host of other items that have kept me alive thus far. And on Saturdays, she prepares biscuits from scratch, with all the appropriate trimmings.

After breakfast, I fall asleep.

Then, she pays bills, records my favorite television shows, plans our trips, buys beer when it goes on sale, reminds me to get my driver’s license renewed, schedules doctor’s appointments, and still finds time to make pints of her pimento cheese—for which she is well-known in these parts.

Above all, she’s a teacher. She schools rebellious kids that the county has given up on. The ones she’s supposed to be helping, are the ones who call her names not fit for scrap hogs.

Well, teachers have feelings too. And she wears hers on the cuff of her sleeve. Always has.

She cried last night. “Why do they hate me?”

They don’t. No one could.

She doesn’t buy it.

After she wipes her eyes, she grades tests and corrects homework. Then, she washes more dishes and does more laundry. She finally falls asleep while I watch the ball game.

You should see her face. She sleeps with a kind of half-smile.

She works hard. Too hard. With her, I feel I have the universe at my private disposal. Without her, I have nothing.

You might be wondering what you just read here.

This is my thank-you card.