A few days ago Ljubica sent me an email to wish me a happy New Year. She wrote about watching a movie, Fences. She wrote, “ ‘Fences,’ the woman says about the man. But he was so big; he filled the house when he was there. But then she said, ‘but he never made room for me.’ ” I don’t know if Ljubica’s assessment of the film is accurate. I have not seen it. But Ljubica’s message is clear: according to her, I never made room for her.

The email includes visual aids. There is a picture of significant items from our relationship. One includes numerous pictures from our relationship: our wedding, her college graduation party, a vacation, walking in the mountains, our kids, a family portrait. The same picture shows her wedding and engagement rings, jewelry, and other gifts, including a polished stone called a tiger’s eye. Her wedding dress is in the picture as well as a bottle of champagne labeled “Love” (it is one of a set given to us by her great aunt for our wedding reception). There are notebooks from a marriage encounter retreat that we attended a year after we got married. There is a stack of thirty letter that I wrote to her, in advance, while we were dating. There is one for each day I was gone when I was visiting the United States. There are two coffee cups that I gave her for Christmas in 2015. Another picture shows a certificate of appreciation that I gave her when I graduated from seminary.

Ljubica writes, “Look at the pictures again. Think of one thing that you really gave to me. One thing that you took time for. Was it the pictures? The letters you wrote? The rings? The necklace? The wedding dress? The coffee cups? The certificate of appreciation that you gave me?”

Is she asking me a question? Or is she just lobbing accusations?

Ljubica—I remember writing you the thirty love letters. It took over a week to do. I would sit at my desk with my itinerary, anticipating where I would be and what I would be doing so that I could tell you. I wrote them in your language. I still didn’t know it well. I had to page through the dictionary to look up hundreds of words. My grammar was poor. I can still remember you teasing me for writing, “You miss me,” instead of “I miss you” because I didn’t know that the idiom was reversed in your language. You would ask, “How do you know that I miss you?” I remember leaving money in the fifteenth letter so that you could go to the telecommunications office and call me. Wasn’t I thinking of you then? Wasn’t I making time for you then?

I remember slowly walking through the rock shop in Idaho looking for a beautiful stone. I landed on the tiger’s eye. I gave it to you when I came back from the trip—along with a dozen roses.

I remember going to dozens of dress shops with you to help pick out your wedding dress. You tried on so many. Do you remember telling me at one of them that the young woman helping us wanted you to keep trying on dresses because she found me attractive and wanted to sleep with me?

I remember the white-gold necklace. The one that I gave you when we were dating. I designed it for you, and it was made by a goldsmith in our town. It is one of a kind. No one in the world has one like it.

I remember buying the bracelet. The jeweler’s eyes gleamed when I told him that I was buying it for my wife.

I remember how we visited dozens of jewelry stores looking for the plain gold bands we wanted for our engagement. They were hard to find. Most rings were decorated in one way or another.

I remember designing your diamond engagement ring, the “upgrade” that I bought you after ten years of marriage. I spent hours on it. I sought the best diamond I could afford and the most exquisite yet simple setting.

And I remember how you would take off your wedding ring for weeks and months at a time when you would refuse to acknowledge me as your husband. “You are not mine,” you would say. I remember.

I remember the marriage encounter retreat that we went to early in our marriage. Even then, things were not well with us. In my notebook I pleaded and begged that you and I would find a way to have a healthy marriage. You would not respond. You wrote almost nothing in your notebook. And you did not acknowledge mine. “We’re fine,” you would snap. But we weren’t fine.

I remember giving you the certificate of appreciation the Sunday after I graduated from seminary. Like many things that I did for you in our marriage, I gave it in hope. And I did (and do) appreciate the good that you did in our marriage. I do value the time and effort you put into raising our children. And I am grateful for the times when you treated me well. I will not deny these things.

But I also remember what you told me after the dedication ceremony at my graduation. At one point in the ceremony, family members were called on to support and encourage the graduates in their ministries. “Will you support these men and women…?” you were asked. “Yes,” everyone said—except you. Do you remember? After the ceremony, you told me that you said, “No.” You have said it many times, “I do not support you.” Or, “I will never support you.” Or, “You are wasting your life.”

I remember the coffee cups. I had them custom made in December 2015 to replace the ones you brought back from the concert you attended with our daughter in your home country. The originals had faded from washing. I spent several hours recreating the design and matching the colors so they would be the same. They were one of your Christmas presents. They arrived in the mail the day you told me you wanted a divorce.

And of course there are the pictures. I remember being with you at those times. One might argue, I suppose, that the pictures themselves are evidence that I made time for you. Before we got married, I usually came to visit you twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening. I had to walk, and it was about two miles each way.

I read your questions but I deny your implicit accusations. I only see evidence of my love for you in the pictures. I did made room for you.

You set the items in front of a box that says, “Beware!!!” Beware of what? Love?