Glenn was a decisive man.
If something needed to be done, he did it.
If a problem needed to be solved, he solved it.
If he wanted something, he usually didn’t spend much time thinking about it.
He made a decision and moved forward.
Barbara had admired that quality when they first married.
She liked the fact that Glenn wasn’t indecisive.
He didn’t need three weeks to decide what restaurant they should go to.
He didn’t agonize over every purchase.
He wasn’t afraid to take action.
But there was another side to Glenn’s decisiveness.
He made important decisions without her.
And Barbara was usually the last person to know.
It wasn’t always something enormous.
Sometimes it was a major purchase.
Sometimes it involved their home.
Sometimes it involved a commitment they had made.
Sometimes it involved money.
And occasionally it involved a decision that affected their plans for weeks or months.
Barbara would find out after Glenn had already decided.
Sometimes he would announce it casually.
“I went ahead and took care of that.”
Or:
“I decided we’re going to do this.”
Or:
“I already told them we’d be there.”
Barbara had learned to recognize those words.
They usually meant the decision had already been made.
There was no question to answer.
No discussion to have.
No opinion to give.
The decision was finished.
At first, Barbara complained.
Then she argued.
Then she explained.
Eventually, she became hurt.
The issue wasn’t that Glenn always made bad decisions.
Sometimes they were perfectly good decisions.
That wasn’t the point.
Barbara wanted to be consulted.
She wanted Glenn to say:
“What do you think?”
She wanted him to value her judgment enough to ask for it.
They had discussed the issue many times.
Glenn would promise to do better.
And for a while, Barbara would believe him.
Then it would happen again.
He would make another major decision without her.
And Barbara would feel the same old wound.
Over time, she began to wonder whether Glenn actually saw her as his partner.
She knew he loved her.
She didn’t doubt that.
But love was beginning to feel different from partnership.
And that distinction was becoming dangerous.
Barbara’s Story
Barbara didn’t want to control Glenn.
She wanted to be included.
That was the point she kept trying to make.
“I don’t need to make every decision,” she said.
“I just want to be part of the decisions that affect both of us.”
That seemed reasonable to her.
But Glenn often heard something different.
He heard criticism.
He heard, “You can’t be trusted to make decisions.”
He heard, “You need my permission.”
That wasn’t what Barbara meant.
She wasn’t asking for permission to make decisions.
She was asking for consultation.
The difference had become increasingly important.
One incident finally pushed Barbara toward counseling.
Glenn had decided to make a substantial change involving their home.
It wasn’t an emergency.
It wasn’t something that had to be done that afternoon.
He had researched it, talked to someone about it, and committed to moving forward.
Barbara discovered what he had done after the fact.
She was stunned.
“Why didn’t you talk to me first?”
“I knew you would have questions.”
“Of course I would have questions. It’s our house.”
“I already looked into everything.”
“That’s not the point.”
Glenn became frustrated.
“I made a good decision.”
Barbara felt something inside her collapse.
“I didn’t say you made a bad decision.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that you made it without me.”
Glenn didn’t understand why that distinction mattered so much.
Barbara tried to explain.
“When you make decisions like this without even asking what I think, you’re telling me that my opinion isn’t necessary.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“But that’s what you’re doing.”
The argument ended the way many of their arguments had ended.
Glenn believed Barbara was making too much of it.
Barbara believed Glenn still didn’t understand.
And neither felt heard.
Barbara began thinking about all the other times it had happened.
The vacation plans Glenn had committed them to.
The purchase he had made without discussing it.
The commitment he had made to someone else.
The decision involving their finances.
The changes around the house.
Each individual incident seemed manageable.
Together they formed a pattern.
And patterns communicate something.
Barbara’s interpretation of the pattern was painful.
Glenn doesn’t think he needs me.
That was the part she struggled to say aloud.
“I don’t want to be married to someone who simply informs me of his decisions,” she said.
“I want a husband who sees me as his partner.”
Glenn’s Story
Glenn didn’t see himself as inconsiderate.
He saw himself as efficient.
“I don’t understand why everything has to become a committee meeting.”
He genuinely believed that if he could solve a problem quickly, he was helping Barbara.
“If I know what needs to be done, why drag it out?”
He also believed that Barbara sometimes worried unnecessarily.
She wanted to discuss possibilities.
Glenn wanted to choose one.
She wanted to consider the consequences.
He wanted to solve the problem.
She wanted to talk.
He wanted action.
She wanted participation.
Neither approach was inherently wrong.
But they had become incompatible when Glenn’s desire for efficiency repeatedly overrode Barbara’s need for partnership.
There was another reason Glenn made decisions independently.
He had grown up in a family where that was normal.
His father made decisions.
His mother usually went along with them.
Glenn had never thought of it as disrespect.
It was simply how marriage worked in the home he knew.
But Barbara had grown up differently.
Her parents talked about things.
Her father asked her mother’s opinion.
Important decisions were discussed at the kitchen table.
They didn’t always agree.
But they talked.
Glenn had assumed that because Barbara was capable of making decisions, she would speak up if she disagreed.
He didn’t understand that she wanted to be invited into the decision before it was made.
There was another uncomfortable truth.
Glenn liked being decisive.
He liked the feeling of taking charge.
He liked knowing that when something needed to be done, he could handle it.
And sometimes consulting Barbara felt like slowing himself down.
“I thought I was helping,” he said.
The counselor nodded.
“You may have been trying to help.”
“But?”
“But you’re defining help as getting something done. Barbara is defining partnership as being included.”
Glenn sat quietly.
That was beginning to make sense.
He also admitted something he hadn’t told Barbara.
Sometimes he avoided asking her because he already knew they might disagree.
“So you make the decision first?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Because then we don’t have to argue about it.”
Barbara looked at him.
That revelation hurt more than some of the decisions themselves.
“So you don’t ask me because you don’t want to hear what I think?”
Glenn shook his head.
“That’s not how I mean it.”
“But that’s what you’re saying.”
Glenn realized that he had been avoiding conflict by removing Barbara from the decision.
And in doing so, he had created a deeper conflict.
The Counseling Process
The counselor began by making an important distinction.
“Marriage does not mean that every decision has to be made together.”
Barbara nodded.
Glenn looked relieved.
“Each of you should be able to make ordinary personal decisions without getting permission from the other.”
Barbara agreed.
“But,” the counselor continued, “decisions that significantly affect both spouses should generally involve both spouses.”
Glenn nodded.
The counselor drew a line between consultation and control.
“Barbara, you’re not asking Glenn to surrender his ability to make decisions.”
“No.”
“You’re asking him to recognize that some decisions belong to the marriage, not merely to the individual.”
Barbara nodded.
Then the counselor turned to Glenn.
“And Glenn, you’re not required to ask Barbara about every little thing.”
“Thank goodness.”
Everyone smiled.
“But you do need to stop deciding unilaterally about things that materially affect her.”
Glenn understood the principle.
But the counselor knew understanding wasn’t enough.
They needed a practical system.
Together they created three categories.
The first was my decision.
Personal purchases within an agreed-upon amount.
Personal activities.
Personal friendships.
Small everyday choices.
The second was your decision.
The same principle applied to Barbara.
The third was our decision.
Anything involving significant money.
Major household changes.
Travel commitments.
Family commitments.
Large purchases.
Decisions that changed their schedules substantially.
Anything that would reasonably affect both spouses.
The counselor told them that “our decision” did not mean they had to agree immediately.
It meant they had to discuss it.
That distinction mattered.
“Consultation does not guarantee agreement,” the counselor explained.
“But it guarantees respect.”
That sentence stayed with Barbara.
And it stayed with Glenn.
They then established another rule.
No major commitments without a conversation.
Not necessarily a long conversation.
Not necessarily a meeting.
But a conversation.
“Before you say yes,” the counselor told Glenn, “say, ‘Let me talk with Barbara first.'”
That one sentence could change their marriage.
Glenn admitted that it would feel awkward at first.
“I’m used to just taking care of things.”
“I know.”
“What if I already know what I want to do?”
“Then tell her what you think. Ask what she thinks. And listen.”
Glenn nodded.
The counselor wasn’t asking him to become indecisive.
He wasn’t asking Glenn to surrender leadership.
He was asking him to practice partnership.
There was also work for Barbara.
She had developed a habit of reacting strongly when she discovered one of Glenn’s decisions.
The anger was understandable.
But the counselor pointed out that her reaction sometimes reinforced Glenn’s avoidance.
“If every conversation becomes an argument, he will be tempted to avoid the conversation.”
Barbara understood.
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Tell him what the behavior means to you without attacking his character.”
Instead of:
“You never consider me.”
She could say:
“When you make an important decision without asking me, I feel like my judgment doesn’t matter to you.”
That was different.
It focused on the behavior and its impact.
The counselor also challenged Barbara to stop keeping a mental ledger.
She had begun collecting examples.
Every time Glenn made a unilateral decision, she added it to the list.
Then, during the next argument, the list came out.
“And you did it when…”
“And you did it last year…”
“And don’t forget…”
The counselor stopped her.
“You don’t need a courtroom brief. You need a new pattern.”
Barbara smiled.
That was true.
The goal wasn’t to prove Glenn had been wrong fifty times.
The goal was to help him make the fifty-first decision differently.
There was another important issue.
Glenn needed to understand that asking Barbara wasn’t merely a courtesy.
It was a way of communicating value.
He could say:
“What do you think?”
And even if he ultimately disagreed, Barbara would know that her voice had been heard.
That was what she had been asking for all along.
Can This Marriage Survive?
The question wasn’t whether Glenn could become less decisive.
His decisiveness was not the enemy.
The question was whether he could learn that marriage changes the way a person makes certain decisions.
When Glenn was single, he could decide what he wanted.
After marriage, there were areas of life that belonged to both of them.
That didn’t mean he had lost his independence.
It meant he had gained a partner.
Barbara didn’t want to supervise Glenn.
She didn’t want to approve his decisions.
She didn’t want to turn their home into a boardroom.
She wanted to know that when something mattered to both of them, Glenn would stop long enough to say:
“Let’s talk about this.”
And Glenn eventually understood something that surprised him.
Consulting Barbara often made decisions better.
She saw things he didn’t see.
She thought of consequences he hadn’t considered.
Sometimes she agreed with him.
Sometimes she offered an improvement.
Sometimes she disagreed.
And occasionally, she changed his mind.
That last part was difficult for Glenn at first.
But he began to discover that changing his mind didn’t mean losing.
It meant having a partner whose perspective could make him wiser.
One afternoon, Glenn received an opportunity that would require them to change some long-standing plans.
His old instinct was immediate.
He was ready to say yes.
He even picked up the phone.
Then he stopped.
He looked at the phone.
And remembered.
He called Barbara instead.
“I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.”
Barbara was quiet.
“What is it?”
He explained.
“What do you think?”
Barbara paused.
“I need to think about it.”
“Okay.”
She waited for the frustration.
It didn’t come.
Glenn simply said, “Take your time.”
When they eventually talked about it, they didn’t agree immediately.
They discussed it.
They asked questions.
They considered the consequences.
And in the end, they made the decision together.
Barbara later told the counselor that the decision itself wasn’t what mattered most.
“It was the phone call.”
Outcome
Glenn didn’t become a man who asked Barbara’s opinion about every decision.
He didn’t need to.
And Barbara didn’t become a wife who expected to approve everything Glenn did.
She didn’t need to.
What changed was the pattern.
Glenn began recognizing which decisions belonged to him and which belonged to them.
Before making an important commitment, he stopped.
He talked to Barbara.
He listened.
Sometimes she agreed.
Sometimes she didn’t.
Sometimes he changed his mind.
Sometimes she changed hers.
And sometimes they decided together to do exactly what Glenn had originally wanted to do.
But now it was their decision.
Barbara also changed.
She stopped interpreting every disagreement as evidence that Glenn didn’t respect her.
She learned to express her concerns without turning every discussion into a referendum on their marriage.
She began trusting that being consulted didn’t mean she had to win.
That was important.
Because partnership isn’t about winning.
It’s about being heard.
One evening, Glenn was looking at something on his computer.
Barbara walked into the room.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m looking at something we might want to do.”
She smiled.
“Have you already decided?”
Glenn looked at her.
“No.”
Then he smiled.
“I’m learning.”
Barbara laughed.
“Good.”
He turned the computer toward her.
“Come look at this.”
She sat beside him.
They began talking.
The decision would take time.
Neither knew yet what they would ultimately choose.
But something important had already happened.
Glenn had not made the decision alone.
He had invited his wife into it.
And Barbara no longer felt like an observer in her own marriage.
Can this marriage survive?
Yes.
But only if Glenn learns that being decisive does not mean being unilateral.
And only if Barbara understands that being a partner does not mean having to approve every decision.
Marriage isn’t a dictatorship.
It isn’t a democracy either.
It is a partnership.
And sometimes the most important words a husband can say are remarkably simple:
“What do you think?”
Because when a man asks his wife that question—and genuinely wants to hear the answer—he is saying something far more important than he may realize.
Your opinion matters.
Your judgment matters.
You matter to me.
And for Barbara, that was what she had been asking Glenn to say all along.