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My wife comes out to my office shed with a parcel, which she hands to me. “These are for you,” she says. I open the package.

“Fleecy insoles,” I say. “Thank you.”

“They’ll change your life,” she says. “They changed mine.” With that, she is gone.

The insoles are thick and luxurious, like the backs of tiny sheep. Once installed, they make me an inch taller, but also render my boots a size and a half too small: my toes are rammed together, my heels pressed hard against the rear seams. At first I can only hobble. I figure the insoles will compress with continued wear, but they don’t.

“How do you like your insoles?” my wife says the next day.

“Very warm,” I say.

“Have they changed your life?” she says.

“They certainly have,” I say.

“I told you,” she says.

My wife chooses to show her love through caring actions rather than kind words or unprompted displays of affection. After two lockdowns, she may profess to be sick of my company, but she still leaves little presents out for me to find, like an elf in the night. In fact, she would probably prefer it if I indulged in more caring actions myself, surprising her occasionally with flowers or a 100-pack of nicotine gum. Either way, I can’t reject the insoles. They mean too much.