More responsibility. More patience. More forgiveness.
I told myself that love meant compromise, and compromise often meant sacrifice. What I didn’t realize, at least not right away, was that I had been the only one sacrificing. I worked twelve-hour shifts in a hospital ward that rarely slept.
The kind of place where alarms never stopped beeping, and grief lingered in hallways long after families went home. I saw people at their most vulnerable every day. I cleaned wounds, administered medications, comforted frightened patients, and held hands during moments that changed lives forever.
When my shift ended, I was physically exhausted and emotionally drained. Gregory, on the other hand, worked flexible hours. He drove a polished SUV, wore tailored suits, and spent his days showing houses with ocean views or marble countertops.
He loved to tell people how “stressful” his job was, how clients canceled last minute, or negotiations dragged on longer than expected. And when he came home, he acted as though the world had wrung him dry. He would collapse onto the couch, loosen his tie dramatically, and announce how brutal his day had been.
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