“You signed up to be my husband,” I said.

“Yeah, but this is different,” he replied. “This is like a full-time job. I’m going to have to put my life on hold. My career. My social life. Everything.”

Tears filled my eyes.
“I know it’s hard. I don’t want this either. But it’s temporary. The doctors think—”

He cut me off.
“Temporary still means months. Months of me wiping you, lifting you, doing everything. I can’t do that for free.”

I stared at him.
“For free?”

He took a breath, as if being calm and logical.

“If you want me to stay,” he said, “and take care of you, I want to be paid. A thousand a week.”

I laughed, convinced it was a joke. He didn’t.

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You’ve earned more than I have for years. You’ve been carrying us. Now it’s your turn to pay up. I’m not your nurse.”

Those words burned themselves into my memory.