“When you brought up your surgery, I figured it made sense. If our savings could pay for something you wanted, they could pay for something I wanted too.”
I looked at the man who had held my hand before surgery, kissed my forehead before I was taken into the operating room, and texted that he couldn’t wait to have me home.
Then I asked the question I suddenly feared hearing answered.
“Gerald, did you support my surgery because you wanted me to stop hurting, or because you thought it would buy you something in return?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
He picked up his phone, locked the screen, and set it beside his coffee mug as casually as if we were discussing groceries.
“I supported it for both reasons,” he finally said.
I stared at him.
“You can’t possibly think those are the same thing.”
“I think marriage is about compromise.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped me.
“What exactly did you compromise?”
“I gave up $5,000.”
“Our money paid for a medically necessary surgery.”
“Our money paid for something you wanted.”
“I wanted to stop hurting.”
“You wanted smaller breasts. I never did.”
The words hurt worse than the surgery.
For years, I had believed he understood what I lived with. Every shoulder massage, every reassuring conversation, every promise that my day would come suddenly felt different.
“You really think that’s all this was?” I asked quietly.
He shrugged.
“I won’t pretend I was excited.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and finally met my eyes.
“I liked your body the way it was. I didn’t ask you to change it.” He paused slightly, then said, “You changed the body I liked.”
The room went silent.
“I didn’t do it for my body. I did it because I was in pain.”
“I know you had discomfort.”
I leaned forward despite the soreness.
“Discomfort?”
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