When I found that itemized invoice taped to my refrigerator three days after my hysterectomy, I realized my husband had been keeping score of every act of care. But he had no idea I was about to become a much better accountant than he ever was.
For seven years, I thought my marriage was a quiet kind of happiness.
Daniel and I had built something solid together. We had a nice little house with a porch swing where we’d sit on summer evenings, two steady jobs that paid the bills, and endless conversations about “someday” having kids.
We weren’t rushing, we told ourselves. We wanted to be ready, financially and emotionally. From the outside, it probably looked like we already had everything figured out.“We’ve got time,” Daniel would say whenever the topic came up. “Let’s get the house payments down first, maybe take that trip to Italy we keep talking about.”
I’d nod and smile, thinking we were building toward something beautiful together.
The foundation felt strong. We rarely fought, split the household duties fairly, and still laughed at each other’s terrible jokes over morning coffee.
Sure, he could be a bit rigid about money and schedules, but I chalked that up to his accounting background. Detail-oriented, I used to call it fondly.
But life doesn’t follow neat plans or careful budgets.
Last month, what started as routine checkups turned into emergency appointments. I was experiencing the worst kinds of pains, and then the doctor told me something I didn’t want to hear.
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