I’m a 35-year-old woman, and before the accident, I was the glue holding my marriage together.
I covered most of our expenses.
I cooked. I cleaned.
I managed every appointment, every phone call, every moment of “Can you just handle this, babe? I’m bad with paperwork.”
Whenever my husband wanted to change jobs or “take a break and figure things out,” I sat down with spreadsheets and made it possible. I worked extra hours. I encouraged him. I never kept track of who gave more. I believed marriage was about teamwork and that things would balance out in time.
