I thought my marriage was solid. Quiet. Happy.
Seven years of porch swings, morning coffee, and whispered dreams about “someday” having kids.
Then I had surgery. A hysterectomy.
Complications meant I would never carry children.
I was grieving, but Daniel said the right things.
“We’ll get through this together. It’s us that matters.”
I believed him.
Three days after, weak and dizzy, I shuffled into the kitchen.
I expected kindness. Maybe a Post-it heart on my mug, the way he used to.
Instead, I found it.
Taped to the fridge.
Not groceries.
Not hospital notes.
An invoice.
“Itemized Costs of Caring for You — Please Reimburse ASAP.”
Line by line, my blood ran cold:
Driving you to hospital: $120
Helping you shower: $75/day
Cooking meals: $50 each
Missed poker night: $300
Emotional support: $500
At the bottom, circled in red:
TOTAL DUE: $2,105
My legs nearly gave out.
Who does this to their wife after major surgery?
That night, something inside me hardened.
If he wanted to play accountant with my pain, I’d show him what real accounting looked like.
For three weeks, I kept my own ledger.
Dinners cooked, even while healing: $80 each.
Laundry folded: $15 a shirt.
Listening to him complain about work