I'm a nurse, and my husband’s a realtor. On the surface,

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I'm a nurse, and my husband’s a realtor. On the surface, it looks like we’ve got it all—two healthy kids (usually), a nice house, steady jobs. But the truth is, behind those smiling Facebook photos is a marriage stretched too thin by one person’s selfishness.


That person? My husband, Dave.


Let me back up. I work 12-hour shifts in a high-stress hospital ward, and lately, the workload has been soul-crushing. Burnout is real. Meanwhile, Dave sells high-end properties, drives around town in his shiny SUV, and makes it seem like he's carrying the weight of the world every time a client cancels a showing. And when he gets home? He throws himself on the couch and acts like he just got back from war.


But I’m not here to write about his work ethic. This is about what happened the day before we were supposed to leave for our long-awaited beach vacation—a trip we’d planned six months in advance.


It was supposed to be a family trip. A break. A chance to reconnect.

Then our kids—Emily (4) and Noah (2)—woke up with 102-degree fevers. Both were throwing up. I immediately kicked into nurse-mode, juggling puke buckets, temp checks, and trying to keep them hydrated while also calling the pediatrician’s office.


Dave, meanwhile, sipped his coffee in the kitchen like none of it was happening. When I suggested postponing or cancelling the trip, he stared at me like I’d told him we needed to set the house on fire.


“I’m still going,” he said, wiping cream cheese from his lip. “I need this. You know how hard I’ve been working.”


I blinked at him. “I work too, Dave. And the kids are sick. They need both of us here.”


He actually had the gall to scoff.


“You’re better at the medical stuff anyway. I’d just be in the way.”

That was the moment I knew something inside me had snapped. No apology. No concern for me. No offer to take turns or cancel together. He booked his Uber to the airport like it was no big deal, kissed me on the cheek, and left me with two feverish children, a pile of laundry, and a rage that had been simmering for years.


But this time? This time I wasn't just going to cry into my scrubs and pretend it was okay.


While Dave was lounging at a luxury resort, posting Instagram stories of mimosas and sunsets with captions like “Well-deserved break,” I was elbow-deep in baby wipes and Pedialyte. But every time I rocked my son to sleep or cleaned up another mess, my mind was elsewhere, planning... (continue reading in the 1st comment)

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