She was trying to tell him something important. She had rehearsed the words in her head all day, arranging them carefully, trying to find the exact right way to say what she needed to say without sounding accusatory or demanding or needy. She sat across from him at the dinner table, her heart beating faster than the conversation warranted, and she began. She used "I" statements. She stayed calm. She explained how she felt and what she needed. When she finished, she looked at him and waited for the connection she had been seeking.

He looked back at her with a blank expression. "I do not understand what you want from me," he said. "You always do this. You say everything is fine and then you hit me with a list of complaints." She felt the familiar sinking, the sense of being misunderstood, the urge to either explode or retreat entirely. She had tried so hard to communicate well. And it had not mattered. The conversation ended with her in tears and him on the couch, watching television as though nothing had happened. They were speaking the same language, using words the other understood. But they were not communicating.