Three days after my surgery, I expected care, support, and maybe a gentle word or two from my husband, Daniel. After all, recovery from a hysterectomy isn’t easy, and the first days were the hardest. I imagined him quietly helping me, bringing me water, or simply sitting beside me while I rested. Instead, what I found on the fridge stopped me cold: an invoice, neatly written in his familiar handwriting. The charges were shocking. He had listed fees for driving me to the hospital, helping me shower, cooking meals, and even “emotional support.” The total came to over two thousand dollars. I stared at it, numb, feeling a mixture of disbelief and heartbreak. The man I thought I knew—the one I trusted with my deepest vulnerabilities—had reduced acts of care to mere numbers on a piece of paper.
