You raised it. Twice, probably more, in your calmest voice. Not much changed, so at some point you stopped raising it, and now he tells people things are good.
It is not fair and it is still true. When the complaints stop, plenty of people quietly conclude the problem stopped, and someone used to hearing it regularly is especially prone to that. He may not be ignoring you. He may have filed it as solved.
The dishes are not the point and you both know it. One sentence about the pattern lands where a list never will: "What I keep feeling is that I have to ask to be noticed, and that is the part that wears me down."
No history, no examples from March. One sentence, then stop talking. The silence after it does more work than anything you could add to it.
The week after is always good. That week means almost nothing, because guilt and attention are doing the work for him.
Real change is boring. The bad days stop going as low, and it holds after the attention fades. A good week is a spike. Change is a floor. You will not tell them apart from memory, only from time.
Not to build a case, and not to hand him a report. After months of low-grade disappointment, memory stops being fair to him or to you, and hope keeps editing it in both directions.
A small mark on the same few things each night gives you something steadier than a mood to decide from. Whatever it shows you after thirty days, it will at least be yours and it will be true.
You are not asking for much. You are asking to be noticed without having to ask.
Being loved should never feel like a project you manage alone.
Read the other sides: his side · the shared version
Disclaimer: Personal perspectives only, plain old-fashioned thinking about what keeps people together, not professional advice and not endorsed by any organization; if anything at home feels unsafe, please talk to someone you trust.