I Paid for His Medical Degree for Six Years, Then He Divorced Me — Until the Judge Opened My Envelope and Laughed Loudly
I stared at him. Six years of three jobs. Six years of four-hour sleep nights. And he was asking if I needed to work.
«Yes,» I said, keeping my voice even. «Until your first paycheck clears and we are stable, yes. I need to work.»
He sighed, the sound of a man burdened by a nuisance. «Fine. I’ll probably be late. Veronica invited a group of us to a celebration dinner.»
«Veronica invited you?»
«Us. The group. It’s networking, Grace. It’s vital for my career.»
I went home alone. I put on my diner uniform. That night, I served burgers and refilled coffee for bad tippers, while my mind replayed images of Brandon at a white-tablecloth restaurant with Veronica Ashford, discussing a future I wouldn’t understand.
Three weeks later, Brandon secured the position at Metropolitan Elite. Starting salary: $200,000. When he told me, I wept with relief. Finally, I could quit a job. Maybe two. Maybe I could finish my degree.
But Brandon had other ideas. He came home one evening with glossy brochures for luxury high-rises.
«We need to move,» he announced, fanning them out on our scratched table. «This apartment is not appropriate for a man in my position. My colleagues live in the River District. That is where we belong.»
I looked at the prices. The cheapest unit was $4,000 a month—more than I earned in three months combined.
«Brandon, this is exorbitant. Can’t we find something nice but reasonable? That way I could stop working and go back to school.»
He looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. «Grace, image is currency in my field. Where we live, what we drive, how we present—it matters. Besides, it’s good for you to keep working. Independence is healthy.»
Independence. That was the new buzzword.
We moved to the River District. Brandon bought a BMW and a wardrobe of Italian suits. He joined a gym that cost $300 monthly. He got haircuts at salons that charged more than I made in a week of waiting tables. And I kept working my two jobs. I had quit the cleaning gig, but I was still paying my «share» of our expenses while watching Brandon morph into a stranger.
The criticism became a constant background noise. «Grace, do something with your hair.» «Grace, that shirt is threadbare.» «Grace, you really should read the Wall Street Journal; you’re oblivious to the world.»
«Grace, I can’t take you to the fundraiser. You wouldn’t fit in.»
Every critique was a scalpel cut. I was the same woman who had worked herself to the bone for him. The same woman who had sacrificed her education. But now, I wasn’t enough. I was too simple. Too plain. Too unsophisticated.
Veronica’s name became a refrain in our home. «Veronica organized the gala.» «Veronica is so witty.» «Veronica summers in the Hamptons.» «Veronica understands the industry.»
I confronted him once. «Brandon, you talk about her constantly.»
His face darkened. «She is a colleague, Grace. A professional contact. This is exactly your problem. You are insecure and paranoid. You don’t understand professional dynamics. This is why I leave you at home. You are small-minded.»
Small-minded. After everything I gave, I was small-minded for noticing my husband’s infatuation.
Our eighth wedding anniversary fell on a Tuesday in October. I had been planning for weeks, squirreling away cash from my tips. I wanted one perfect night. A night to remember who we were before the money and the BMWs and Veronica Ashford.
I left my cashier shift early, forfeiting pay to prep. I bought ingredients for chicken parmesan—his favorite dish from the old days. I bought candles from the dollar store and set the table. I wore the navy graduation dress, the best thing I owned. I curled my hair. I bought a small chocolate cake.
I checked my phone. His shift ended at 6:00. It became 6:30. Then 7:00. Then 7:30.
At 8:00 PM, I texted: Are you on your way? Dinner is ready.
At 8:30 PM, he replied: Stuck at hospital. Emergency consult.
My heart sank, but I accepted it. He was a surgeon. Emergencies happened. I covered the food with foil and left the candles burning.
At 9:45 PM, the lock clicked. Brandon walked in. He wasn’t wearing scrubs. He wasn’t wearing a white coat. He was wearing a sharp suit, and he smelled of cologne mixed with something floral—a perfume I didn’t own.
«Hey,» he muttered, walking past the dining table without breaking stride.
«Brandon,» I said softly. «I made dinner. It’s our anniversary.»
He stopped, turning as if he had just realized I was in the room. His eyes swept over the table—the candles burned low, the cold food, the cake with «Happy Anniversary» in blue icing.
«Grace, I told you I was stuck.»
«You’re wearing a suit,» I said. «Not scrubs.»
His jaw tightened. «I had to change for a meeting afterward. A professional obligation.»
«On our anniversary? You couldn’t tell them you had plans?»
«Some things are more important than dinner, Grace.»
«More important than our anniversary? Than eight years of marriage?»
Something cracked in my chest. «Please,» I whispered. «Just sit with me. The food is still warm. We can…»
«I’m not hungry,» he snapped. «I ate at the meeting.»
He headed for the bedroom. I stood there in my cheap dress, staring at the table I had set with such hope. The candles flickered, dying out.
My eyes burned, but I refused to cry. I followed him. He was changing into casual clothes, his back to me.
«Brandon, we need to talk.»
«Not now, Grace. I’m spent.»
«We never talk. You’re always at the hospital, or out, or…»
«Or what?» He spun around, eyes blazing. «Say it. You think I’m doing something wrong?»
«I think you’ve forgotten us. Forgotten our marriage. Forgotten everything we went through.»
He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. «Everything we went through? Grace, I went through medical school. Istudied for years. I work sixteen-hour shifts. I built this career. What did you do? You punched a clock. You served coffee. That isn’t sacrifice. That’s just having a job.»
The words hit like a physical slap. «I worked three jobs so you could study. I gave up my degree. I gave up everything.»
«No one asked you to!» he shouted. «That was your choice, Grace. I never put a gun to your head. You made yourself a martyr, and now you want me to bow down forever? That isn’t how life works.»
I couldn’t breathe. This stranger in my bedroom couldn’t be the man who had promised me forever.
«Brandon,» I whispered, «what happened to you?»
He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face. When he looked up, his eyes were glacial.
«I grew up, Grace. I evolved. I’m not that scared kid in the tenement apartment anymore. I’m a top surgeon. I have respect. I have a future.» He looked me up and down, his lip curling slightly. «And you? You’re still the same girl from eight years ago. You haven’t grown. You haven’t changed. You’re still scanning groceries, still waiting tables, still acting poor when we aren’t.»
«I work to save money for us. To contribute.»
«I don’t need your contribution.» He stood up. «I don’t need your discount clothes, or your homemade casseroles, or your tired face reminding me of where I came from. Do you know what Veronica said? She said I looked weighed down. Like I was dragging a heavy load. She’s right. I am. This marriage is an anchor.»
«You, Veronica, always Veronica. Are you sleeping with her?» The question slipped out.
«Does it matter?» he shot back. «Would it change the facts? Grace, look at yourself. Look at your hands. Your life. You are stuck in the past. Veronica understands ambition. She belongs in my world.» He shook his head. «You don’t.»
I stood frozen as he went to the closet and dragged out a suitcase.
«What are you doing?»
«I’ve been planning this for months,» he said, throwing clothes into the bag. «We aren’t compatible. We’re different species now.»
«Because I’m not rich? Because I’m not sophisticated enough?»
He stopped and looked me dead in the eye. «Because your simplicity disgusts me, Grace. The way you think, the way you dress, the way you exist. It’s small. It’s limited. It is beneath what I deserve. You aren’t worthy of the life I’ve built.»
Not worthy. After six years of hell. After giving him my future.
«I want a divorce,» he said, zipping the bag. «My lawyer will be in touch. You can stay here for a month. Then I’m selling the place.»
He paused at the door. «For what it’s worth, I appreciated what you did. Back then. But gratitude doesn’t build a future. I’m sorry you can’t see that.»
Then he walked out. I heard the front door slam. The candles in the dining room had finally burned out. The anniversary dinner sat rotting, and eight years of my life had just walked out the door.
The days that followed were a blur of gray. I went to work. I came home. I stared at walls. I didn’t cry immediately. I was too hollowed out. It felt like someone had scooped out my insides, leaving a shell that only knew how to scan barcodes and refill water glasses.
The legal papers arrived two weeks later. I sat on the couch—our couch—and read the terms. I received nothing.
A payout of $15,000 «out of generosity.» No claim to the condo, no claim to his retirement, no claim to the investments. The document claimed I had «no substantial financial contribution» and showed a «lack of professional development.»
I looked in the bathroom mirror. I was twenty-eight but looked forty. My skin was dry, my shoulders slumped. I had given my prime years to a man who discarded me like trash.
That was when I broke. I slid to the tile floor and wailed. Ugly, guttural sobs that shook my frame. I cried for the girl who believed in love. I cried for the degree I never got.
