I thought my husband’s long hours were the price of loving a man devoted to his work.
For eleven years, I told myself that.
When Ben missed dinner, I reheated his plate.
When he missed Thanksgiving, I told our daughter, Olive, that Daddy had an important patient.
When he forgot our anniversary, I pretended I hadn’t noticed the date circled on the calendar.
And when he came home after midnight smelling like hospital disinfectant and stale coffee, I never asked too many questions.
I simply moved over in bed.
I had become very good at making room.
Making room for his schedule.
Making room for his exhaustion.
Making room for his career.
Making room for the things he said couldn’t wait.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking whether there was still room for me.
Ben was a surgeon at one of the busiest hospitals in the city. His job was demanding, unpredictable, and sometimes brutal.
At least, that’s what I believed.
I believed the missed dinners meant someone needed him.
The late nights meant someone was sick.
The weekend calls meant another family needed his hands.
And every time I felt lonely, I reminded myself that I had married a man who saved lives.
