Marriage, I used to believe, was about compromise — give and take, forgiveness and growth. But somewhere along the way, my husband forgot the meaning of partnership. Or maybe, if I’m being brutally honest, he never really understood it.
Six years in, with three kids under the age of seven, I had learned to operate on fumes. My days started before sunrise and ended long after midnight. Twelve-hour shifts at the hospital left my body aching and my mind drained. I’d return home to boiling pots, sticky countertops, and laundry mountains that multiplied like weeds.
Jason, my husband, had been laid off earlier that year. He called it “temporary,” told everyone he was holding out for “the right opportunity.” But months passed, and the only thing he worked hard at was scrolling through job boards while I broke my back keeping us afloat.
Still, I kept quiet. I told myself he was just lost — that the man I married would find his way back. But that illusion shattered one night, at his mother’s birthday dinner.
Ruth’s gatherings were always a production. The house smelled of roasted turkey and cinnamon, the table groaned under the weight of pies and casseroles, and relatives filled every corner with laughter and chatter. I was bone-tired but glad to be out of scrubs and among family.
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