You stopped asking.
She hasn't noticed.
And that's the part you can't say to anyone.
You have done the things. Maybe it was the laundry and the school runs. Maybe it was the money, or the patience, or giving up the thing you wanted so the house would be easier.
Whatever the currency is in your house, you have been paying in it for years. She still says she's tired.
So a few weeks ago you ran a quiet experiment. You stopped asking. No announcement, nothing anyone could point at — you just stopped, and waited to see whether she'd come to you.
She hasn't. And as far as you can tell she hasn't registered that anything changed.
You know the shape of the evening before it happens. She gets home, the children need something, the food needs doing, and somewhere in the middle of it you decide tonight is the night you'll say something.
Then you watch her sit on the edge of the bed to take off her shoes and stay there a minute too long, and you decide not to.
You lie facing the wall doing arithmetic. Two weeks. Three. You know the number. You hate that you know the number.
Here's what makes it worse: she doesn't have the same number. If you said "it's been two weeks" she'd say it's not that far — and she wouldn't be lying to you. She'd be genuinely remembering a different marriage from the one you've been living in. Two people, one house, two entirely different records of the same month.
And you can't say any of this out loud.
Not to your brother. Not to your closest friend. Definitely not to your pastor.
You already know how it goes. Somebody laughs. Somebody turns it into a joke about men. Somebody tells you what he would have done, and it involves doing something to her rather than saying something to her.
So you typed it into Google at one in the morning instead, brightness on the lowest setting, phone face-down on your chest when she turned over.
my wife never initiates.
Google finished the sentence before you did. That's how alone you aren't. It just feels like it.
And lately your mind goes somewhere it didn't used to go. Not seriously. Not yet. But it goes, and you notice it going, and you don't like the man you are inside that thought.
That's why you're here.
Here's what nobody told you
You've been trying to fix this with effort for years. It was never an effort problem — and I can prove that to you with your own history in about four hundred words.
First, the thing you're inside.
You ask. She says she's tired, or not tonight, or nothing at all. You take it in and go quiet — not dramatically, just a small door closing.
She feels the door close. She doesn't know why it closed, and she's too depleted to go looking.
So there's slightly more distance in the house on Tuesday than there was on Monday. And the more distance there is, the less either of you reaches across it, and the more it costs you to ask the next time.
Ask. Refuse. Withdraw. Distance. Less reaching. Repeat.
That's the Rejection Loop. Nobody has to do anything wrong to keep it turning — it runs on its own, and every cycle raises the price of the next attempt. It's why this feels worse than last year even though nothing dramatic happened.
Second: the loop has four different engines, and everybody assumes theirs is the only one.
This is where most men go wrong, and it's why the advice you've been given hasn't fitted. Somebody hands you the answer to a problem you don't have.
The Ledger
She mentions she'd like help. You do it — properly, not the performance of helping. Saturdays are yours. You learn how she wants the clothes folded. You stop needing to be asked.
And when nothing shifts, you can still recite the entire list, item by item, because you were keeping one.
That's not sharing a load. That's an account.
There is an enormous difference between carrying half the domestic work because half of it is yours, and performing tasks as payment into something you expect to draw on later. From outside they're identical. They are nothing alike to live beside.
Because she can feel the account. She may have no words for it and she almost certainly hasn't said it, but she can feel that the folded clothes have a price attached and that she's fallen into arrears.
Nobody has ever wanted a person they owe.
The account can be kept in money. It can be kept in time. It can be kept in patience — and that last one is the version nobody writes about, which is why a man with no maid and no spare cash reads the chapter on this and thinks it isn't about him.
I need to be straight with you about that one.
It wasn't mine.
I've always done the chores in my house. Not as a strategy, not in exchange for anything — they're just things I do, and they were things I did before any of this started. So when I went looking for help I kept finding the Ledger described everywhere, and it explained a great many men, and it did not explain me.
Mine was the second engine, and it's the one nobody writes about.
The Fade
We talked about it. A real conversation, both of us honest. It worked — for about a week, maybe three.
Then we drifted back.
So we talked again. Same thing. Worked, then faded. Then we watched podcasts together, sat down side by side, and she said that's really true, I never saw it that way — and there was an adjustment, and then a drift. Then we read books together. Adjustment. Drift.
Four serious attempts. Every one worked. Every one wore off inside a month.
And for years I read that fade as information. She doesn't really mean it. She's saying what I want to hear. Something is wrong here that talking can't touch.
All of that was wrong. Neither of us could name a trigger for a single one of those drift-backs. Not one. Because there wasn't one. When you deliberately push yourself into a behaviour that isn't your default, and then the pushing stops, you revert. That's not a verdict on the marriage or on you. It's what deliberate behaviour does.
Which means the fade was never evidence of anything — and the fix was never a better conversation. The fix is a conversation that doesn't get to stop. Ten minutes, once a week, on a schedule, whether or not anything is wrong.
The Blank
Not refusal — absence. The thought genuinely isn't there. Common in the months after a baby, and it looks exactly like rejection from where you're standing while being nothing of the kind.
The Misread
Yours might be the simplest one. You decided she had no interest, and you decided it from evidence that didn't say that. Mine did: I reasoned that a person goes after what they want, so if she never goes after this, she doesn't want it. Airtight. Also wrong — and I was getting a yes roughly half the time I asked while still believing she had no interest at all.
Two of the four is the usual result, and the chapter explains why. Chapter 2 tells you which, and Chapter 4 is the seven days of watching that confirm it.
Read this before you buy anything
This is for a marriage where two people still want each other and can't find the way back. A mismatch between two willing people.
This is not for you if:
— There is an affair, either side. Different problem, needs a counsellor.
— She has told you she's leaving.
— There is coercion or abuse in either direction. If sex is being pressured, extracted, or used as a weapon in your home, close this page and speak to a professional. Nothing here helps you and I don't want your money.
— Alcohol, drugs, gambling or pornography has a grip on either of you that the person concerned can't put down. Not because anybody is a bad person. Because nothing in this book survives being lower on the list than the thing. That gets dealt with first, and then this.
And one more that matters more than those four:
This will not make your wife want you. I can't sell you that. Nobody can sell you another adult's desire, and any page implying otherwise is lying to you for ₦9,800.
What it does: you stop guessing, you stop reading her exhaustion as a verdict on you, you get the words to say the thing you haven't been able to say — and you put in the ten minutes a week that stops it fading back in a month. What she does with that is hers.
If that's not enough, don't buy it. I'd honestly rather you didn't.
My name is not Steven T. Mende.
I write under it because I couldn't tell my own brother any of this, and it would be strange to tell strangers while still not being able to tell him. If that sentence makes sense to you, you're in the right place. If it doesn't, you're not who this is for.
What is true: I'm Nigerian, late thirties, married nine years, two children. I was the one who always asked, for about six of them.
The first two years
We were good friends before we married, which I think mattered more than we realised.
Those first two years, nothing was arranged. We did things together constantly. I was working remotely for part of it, so I'd be at home, and things simply happened — weekends mostly, sometimes when I finished work. Neither of us was managing anything or keeping track of anything. It was one of the reasons we were happy, and it never occurred to me that it was a phase rather than a fact.
Then our first child came.
What I concluded, and how I got there
The change wasn't announced. There was no fight. It just stopped happening unless I started it.
So I did what I imagine you've done, which is reason it out. And my reasoning was clean.
A person goes after what they want. She's not a passive person — when she needs something, she says so and she goes and gets it. Which means if she never once goes after this, then she doesn't want it.
And I didn't stop there, because nobody stops there. I went further: if she doesn't want it and I keep bringing it up, then what I am to her in those moments is a problem. A burden. An unpleasant thing that keeps arriving.
I want to point something out about that chain of reasoning, because it took me six years to see it.
Every link is sound. And the conclusion was false. I was getting a yes about half the time I asked — genuinely, fifty-fifty — and I had still concluded she had no interest in me whatsoever. The evidence was in front of me the whole time and I had already decided what it meant.
What I tried
I talked. I should say that I've always believed couples should be able to talk about anything — that isn't something I learned from this, it's how I came into the marriage. So talking was my first move and my tenth.
And the talks worked. That's the part I couldn't make sense of for years. We'd sit down, she'd be honest with me, something would shift, and for a week or three weeks it would be different.
Then we'd drift back.
So we'd talk again. I thought we talked about this. How are we back here? And she'd agree, and we'd decide to actively try, and it would work, and it would fade.
We watched podcasts together. Sat down side by side and watched properly, not in separate rooms on separate phones. She'd say that's really true, I never saw it that way — and she meant it. Adjustment. Then drift.
We read books together. Same shape exactly. Something would change, and then it would quietly stop being changed.
I looked outside. Not directly — you never ask directly. You raise it sideways, a general observation about marriage, a joke with a question hidden inside it, hoping somebody picks it up and tells you the truth.
What came back was frightening. Check her phone. She's got someone outside. Cut off the money and watch how quickly she remembers you. And underneath every version, the same message: you've made yourself small, be a man.
Somebody found out I do the laundry and I have not stopped hearing about it since.
So understand what that leaves. You can't ask your friends. You can't ask your pastor. You certainly can't ask her mother. That's not loneliness — loneliness is having people and feeling apart from them. This is nobody.
Then I gave up. This is the part I'd like to skip.
I decided to stop. Stop initiating, stop raising it, stop all of it. Not as a tactic to make her notice — I want to be accurate about that, because I know some men do it as a test. I was simply finished.
Almost two months.
She didn't raise it. Not once.
And eventually I mentioned it, and she told me she wished I'd never brought it up.
I don't think I can put across what that did. Because in one sentence it confirmed the entire six-year theory. If even mentioning it is unwelcome, then I am the burden. I'd been right the whole time.
So I made a decision, lying there, and I remember the exact words I used on myself: I'll endure and carry my own cross. I don't want my own satisfaction to be an inconvenience to another person.
I thought that was maturity. I've since worked out what it actually was, which is a man deciding to disappear inside his own marriage and calling it love.
What she actually meant
Years later I asked her what she had meant by that sentence. Here it is, in her words, because it isn't mine to paraphrase.
"It's not that I didn't want to have sex. What I meant was that I wished you felt the same way I felt about it at that moment — and at the same time I wished it wasn't a topic we had to talk about at all.
Because sometimes I felt sincerely broken by the whole thing. Someone I genuinely love was hurting and completely unsatisfied and couldn't help it. Couldn't get the satisfaction he deserves as my husband. And I couldn't help him the way he expected me to.
So I just got torn. It hurt me too. And sometimes I was at a loss for what to do.
That's why I kept trying to get back on track after every conversation we had — before the drift-back happened."
Read that again and count how many of my six years survive it.
I thought I was a burden she was tired of carrying. She was carrying something heavier than I was, and she was carrying it silently, about me.
I thought "I wish you'd never mentioned it" meant stop asking me for this. It meant don't make me look at the fact that I'm failing you. She wasn't avoiding the subject because it annoyed her. She was avoiding it because every time it came up she had to sit with the idea that she was hurting someone she loved and had no way to stop.
I need to be careful with one line in there, because I know what some men will do with it. She said the satisfaction he deserves as my husband. She was not telling me I was owed anything. Nobody is owed that, and if you take that sentence out of her mouth and use it as leverage you will have understood nothing on this page. She was describing her own guilt, not my rights. Those are completely different things and the difference is most of this book.
And then the last line, which is the one that finished me.
That's why I kept trying to get back on track after every conversation.
Every one of those four attempts I had filed under didn't work — she had gone away from each of them and tried. The fade I'd been reading as proof she never meant it was actually effort running out of fuel. She wasn't drifting back from indifference. She was drifting back the way anybody drifts back from something they're pushing themselves uphill to do.
I had four pieces of evidence that she didn't care. All four were evidence that she did.
What else she told me
There was more, and I'm not putting all of it here — some of it is hers.
After the baby, the thought was not there. That's how she put it — not that she'd decided against it, not that she was withholding it, not that she was tired of me. It was as if I forgot it exists.
She was up through the night feeding. She wasn't sleeping properly. She was overwhelmed — and here's the part that surprised me most, because I'd assumed my helping was the answer to everything: it wasn't the chores. I do the chores. It was the baby, and the constant holding of everything in her head, and work on top of it.
And she'd been concerned enough about it to go and research it herself. On her own, without telling me, while I was upstairs concluding she didn't care.
Then she said the thing that explained the fade. What you're not naturally, what you have to push yourself to do — after a while you go back to the habits you're used to. And: what I have to push myself to do, most times I just put off.
That's it. That's the answer to four failed attempts and six years of interpretation. Not a hidden reason. Not a withheld truth. Reversion.
What actually changed things
We didn't fix it that night. It took a long time and it wasn't a straight line — she got pregnant again in the middle of it, which restarted a good deal of it.
We never stopped talking about it. Not "we had a big talk." We stopped treating it as a subject that gets resolved and closed, and started treating it as a standing item. That single change is what separated the years that faded from the ones that held.
We started asking each other afterwards. Two questions: what did you like most, was there anything you didn't like. Both of us, both directions. Six years of guessing what the other person wanted, ended by asking. It sounds absurdly obvious written down. Nobody had ever suggested it to me.
We agreed in advance that intensity isn't hatred. Some of these conversations got heated, and we'd say it out loud to each other — however hard this gets, it doesn't mean we hate each other, we're working on a difficulty. That one sentence is why the hard conversations didn't turn into damage.
Where we are now: it isn't perfect, and I'm not going to pretend to you that it is. We're not where we were in the first two years. But it's satisfactory, and I mean that word — it satisfies. Compared to lying in the dark deciding to carry my own cross, it isn't close.
And there's a sentence of hers at the end of the book that I'd have got wrong if she hadn't written it: it's not perfection, it's connection.
Why we wrote it down
Because of what was available to me when I went looking. Mockery, revenge plans, and men selling other men in my position leverage — techniques for dominance, how to make her worry she might lose you.
That advice will end your marriage and make you feel strong while it does it.
The only things that worked for me were the things nobody was selling: a way to raise it that doesn't sound like an accusation, enough understanding of her side to hear the answer without falling apart, and something that keeps it from quietly fading in three weeks.
So my wife and I wrote it down together. My side and hers, in the same book.
Neither of the names on it is ours, for the same reason you're reading this at night.
What the 14 days look like
You read Chapters 1 and 2 and identify your engine. Nothing has changed in your house; something has changed in you. You stop reading "I'm tired" as a sentence about your desirability.
The four-question ledger test. Fifteen minutes, in writing, alone. Uncomfortable — and question 3 is the one you may least want answered on paper.
The observation log. Seven days of noticing what she's carrying that you've never counted — including the part that isn't a task at all. You're not fixing anything this week. Only looking, and confirming which engine is actually yours.
The decoder and the opening script. Four sentences, rehearsed out loud in the car, alone. They're deliberately unimpressive — impressive openings sound like arguments.
You have the conversation. Not all of it at once; the script is built to be opened and left open. Chapter 6 covers the three ways it goes wrong: when she cries, when she says so I'm a bad wife now, and when she goes silent.
You set up the check-in. Ten minutes, one day a week, in the calendar, whether or not anything is wrong. This is the chapter men skip and it is the only reason the other thirteen days hold.
Somewhere around here it starts to fade. It faded on me four times and I read it as a verdict every time. When it happens to you, you'll recognise it, you'll know it means nothing, and you'll already have the ten minutes in place to catch it.
What you'll have at the end of it
I'm going to be exact about this, because the book is exact about it and I'd rather the page didn't promise more.
You'll know which engine is running in your house — and why at least two pieces of advice you were given over the years were sound advice aimed at a different marriage.
You'll have four sentences you can actually say, tested against your own week rather than lifted out of a book.
You'll have a rehearsed response to each of the three ways it breaks, so none of them ends the conversation.
And you'll have ten minutes a week that needs no motivation — which is the only thing in here that survives the month after you stop feeling like this.
Four things. All of them yours, and none of them contingent on what she does, which is exactly why I'm willing to promise them.
What I won't promise is that you'll get all four sentences out on the night. You may get one out and have the moment collapse. The book tells you to decide in advance that this counts as a success, and it means it.
That's smaller than what the leverage sellers offer you. It's the part I can actually stand behind.
What's actually being said to men like you
I'm not going to show you five glowing reviews. This is new and I'd be making them up, and you'd know.
Here's something more useful. This is what a Nigerian man received when he described your exact situation in public and asked for help.
Comments from a public Nigerian forum thread. Like counts are the platform's own.
"You're a BLOODY SIMP. Lol, you even wash and iron your wife clothes!!! TUFIAKWA"
"no good woman deny her husband sex"
"Looks like she have someone outside"
A step-by-step plan: plant a condom packet where she'll find it. Leave a bigger woman's bra in the bedroom. Flirt with other girls in front of her. Tell her she's too dark to be attractive so she knows she's replaceable.
And the rest of it: report her to her parents. Report her to the pastor's wife. Cut off the money. Get someone outside.
That man had done the laundry. He'd ironed everything she'd wear that week, hired a maid, handed over his only car — and when none of it worked he posted the itemised list in public as evidence against his wife.
Nine hundred replies, and not one person told him what the list itself revealed. Not one person said the list is the problem.
Now the same problem, posted by a man in America.
A long, careful answer explaining that plenty of people don't feel wanting until they already feel wanted, that his hurt was real, and that the trap he'd fallen into was needing her to prove something about him. Book recommendation at the end.
Same man. Same marriage. Same one o'clock in the morning.
One of them got the truth. The other got a revenge plan and 135 people laughing. Which one you got depended on where you were born.
That's why this exists.
Why the Chores Didn't Work
For the husband who has become the only one asking — what she is not telling you about "I'm tired," and the conversation that changes it
by Steven T. Mende
A 232-page book, delivered as a PDF. Instant download. Nobody sees you buy it and nothing arrives at your house.
Who I am, why the name isn't mine, the four situations this book cannot help, and what I am not selling you. Plus the whole fourteen days on one page.
The four-step cycle you're inside, drawn from above. Why it accelerates on its own, why it's worse than last year, and why neither of you has to be doing anything wrong for it to keep turning. Ends with a twenty-minute exercise you can finish tonight.
The four engines, and how to tell them apart. The Ledger, The Fade, The Blank, The Misread. Two of the four is the usual result; the wrong diagnosis is why nothing you've tried has fitted. Includes the twenty-statement diagnostic.
Nine sentences she has said to you — "I'm tired," "Not tonight," "Is that all you want from me?", silence, "I wish you'd never mentioned it" — and the two to four things each more plausibly means. And why picking one of them is the mistake.
A week of structured watching before you say a word. Printable. Do this before Chapter 5 or the conversation goes badly, and I'll explain exactly why.
Four sentences, word for word, with the reasoning behind each and a different line for each of the four engines. Plus the six openings that sound reasonable in your head and land as accusations.
Three rehearsed responses. When she cries. When she says "so I'm a bad wife now." When she goes completely silent. What to say, and more usefully what to stop saying. Plus the outcome nobody warns you about: when it goes perfectly well and nothing happens.
The chapter this whole book exists for. Ten minutes, one day a week, four questions, on a schedule. Why every talk you've had faded in three weeks — and what to do when it starts fading anyway.
The simplest tool here and the one nobody suggested to me in six years. Two questions, both people, both directions.
Plainly written. The four situations this can't help, how to tell when the answer is a doctor rather than a conversation, and how to find someone competent wherever you live — with six questions to ask before you pay anyone and nine reasons to walk out.
What this looks like later, and what to do when life restarts it. Then my wife takes over for the last several pages, in her own words, including the thing she'd been doing for months that I knew nothing about.
Every source in plain language, what each one does and does not support, and a separate section on what is not settled. Twenty references, all checked.
Seventeen sheets. Every tool in the book, stripped down so you can work them: the diagnostic, the ledger test, the seven-day log, the mental load inventory, the scripts and the cards.
🔒 Secure checkout · ⚡ Instant download · 🕶️ Nothing named on your statement · 📄 No physical delivery
Send me the book — ₦9,800Two things included
The Weekly Check-In Card
A separate file, sized for your phone rather than for a page. The four questions, then the rules, then what to do on the week it slips — including the exact sentence for a missed week and the one for two.
It also comes as three images you can save to your photos, so on a Sunday morning you don't have to open anything.
There's an A4 version of it in the book's appendix too, for anyone who prints the worksheets. The separate file is the one you'll actually use.
This exists because I know what you'll do with Chapter 7: read it, agree with it, intend to do it, and not do it. The card is there so the ten minutes needs no preparation and no decision — you open it and read question one. Everything in this book that lasts, lasts because of this.
"If She Reads This Too"
A letter written directly to her, as a separate file, which you can hand over or forward without having to explain any of this yourself.
My wife wrote it. All of it, in her own words. The first thing she says is that she doesn't know you and won't tell your wife what you're feeling. The second is that nobody is asking your wife for anything.
I added this because of what happened in our house. She read what I'd written about my side and recognised herself in it, and that recognition did more in an afternoon than years of my ironing. Some men won't use it. For the ones who can't get the words out even with a script, it's a door.
It also tells her, plainly, that if any of it reaches her as pressure she should take it to a professional rather than to him. I'd rather that sentence were in there than not.
The offer
| Why the Chores Didn't Work (232-page PDF) | ₦9,800 |
| Bonus 1 — The Weekly Check-In Card | ₦4,500 |
| Bonus 2 — "If She Reads This Too" | ₦6,000 |
| Total value | ₦20,300 |
| Launch price, first 50 buyers | ₦9,800 |
₦9,800 is the launch price, and it holds for the first 50 buyers. After that it goes to ₦14,500 and stays there.
I'm not going to put a counter on the page or a clock in the corner. You'll either take my word for it or you won't — and if the number at the top of this section has already changed by the time you're reading it, that's your answer about whether I meant it.
Send me the book — ₦9,800 Paying from outside Nigeria? Get it for $9.97 here🔒 Secure checkout · ⚡ Instant download · 🕶️ Nothing named on your statement
One practical note, since I know it matters to you.
Your receipt comes from Selar, our payment processor. Their receipt template isn't something we can edit, so it will carry the name the product is listed under — S.T. Mende — Guide 01. Not the title.
Your bank statement shows Selar. Nothing is posted to your house. And if you'd still rather this didn't land in your main inbox, use any email address you like — it doesn't have to be the one you normally use.
Anything you need afterwards, including the refund, goes to support@themendeletters.com. A person reads it.
On the price. You've spent more than this on one dinner that produced nothing. Whatever you've been paying into this — in money, in time, in patience — you have spent multiples of ₦9,800 on it already.
I'm not saying that to make you feel foolish. Those were all attempts to fix this and they were all made in good faith. I'm saying it because ₦9,800 is the cheapest attempt you'll have made, and the first one aimed at the actual cause.
Read it. If it doesn't describe your life, take your money back.
No form. No survey. No "did you complete the exercises."
Download it, read it, and if Chapters 1 and 2 don't describe your last six months more accurately than you could have described them yourself — email support@themendeletters.com inside thirty days and we'll refund you in full. Keep the file. I won't ask you to prove anything and I certainly won't ask you to explain your marriage to a stranger to get ₦9,800 back.
If that address ever bounces, themendeletters@gmail.com reaches us too. I'd rather you had two ways to ask for a refund than none.
That's about a hundred and eighty minutes of reading to find out. It's the first two chapters, and it's the whole of what I'm asking you to take on trust.
What I won't promise, because I can't: an outcome that depends on another adult human being. Anybody promising you that is selling something that doesn't exist.
What I'll stand behind: you'll know which of the four engines is running in your house, you'll have the words to raise it, and you'll have the ten minutes a week that stops it fading.
Two options
Option 1 — Close this page.
A real option. Here's the honest forecast.
Tonight goes the way tonight goes. Arithmetic, facing the wall. Tomorrow you're pleasant, and the second conversation keeps running underneath.
The loop doesn't hold steady, though. Six months from now the distance is wider and asking costs more, and by then you'll have stopped wanting to. Two polite people, co-parenting well.
Or you do what I did — decide to carry your own cross, and mistake it for maturity. I can tell you where that road goes because I was two months down it. It goes to a man deciding to disappear inside his own marriage while telling himself he's being considerate.
And that thought you've started having, the one you don't like being the kind of man who has, comes back a little more easily each time. Not because you're a bad man. Because loneliness inside a marriage is a specific kind of hungry, and something eventually gets fed.
You'll get through it. Plenty of men do. They just do it separately, in the same house, for twenty years.
Option 2 — Read it tonight.
Fourteen days from now you'll have raised it. Not perfectly, and possibly not all of it — the book is clear that one sentence out loud counts, and it's clear about why.
But you'll have stopped guessing. You'll know which engine is running. You'll have the words in your own handwriting, and a rehearsed answer for the moment it breaks.
And in week four, when it starts to fade — because it will — you won't read that as your answer. You'll recognise it, and you'll have the ten minutes already in the calendar to catch it.
That's what's on the other side of ₦9,800 and one evening of reading. Not a technique. Not leverage. The end of doing this alone inside your own head.
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P.S. Thirty days. Read it, and if it doesn't describe your life better than you could, email support@themendeletters.com, ask for the money back and keep the file. You're risking one evening's reading.
P.P.S. The launch price is for the first 50 buyers. After that it's ₦14,500, and I won't be making exceptions — not because I'm trying to hurry you, but because I'd rather move the number once and honestly than run a permanent discount and pretend it's a deadline.
P.P.P.S. I stopped asking for almost two months, and she never brought it up once, and when I finally mentioned it she told me she wished I hadn't.
I took that as confirmation of everything I'd believed for six years. That I was a burden. That my wanting my wife was an inconvenience to her.
I was wrong. Not slightly — completely, about all of it, and I could have found out at any point in those six years by asking one question I never asked.
Ask her. There's a script.
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Steven T. Mende is a pen name. This book is not medical, psychological or legal advice.
Where a situation exceeds a conversation, please speak to a qualified marriage counsellor, therapist or doctor.