I saved tips for two months to buy one nice dress. I borrowed library books about current events so I could have intelligent conversations when Brandon occasionally let me attend his functions. But I was still working three jobs.
I was still exhausted. And no amount of cheap makeup could hide the bone-deep tiredness in my eyes.
The worst part? Brandon stopped noticing my sacrifices. He stopped saying thank you when I handed him money. He stopped helping around the apartment.
His studies were too important, he said. He started sleeping in the spare room because my alarm for my 5:00 AM shifts disturbed him. The man who used to massage my tired feet now barely looked at them.
Brandon’s graduation day arrived on a sunny Saturday in May. I sat in the auditorium with hundreds of other people, watching as medical students walked across the stage in their caps and gowns to receive their diplomas.
When they called Brandon’s name—»Dr. Brandon Pierce»—I stood up and cheered louder than anyone else in that room. Tears streamed down my face. Six years—six years of working myself into the ground—had led to this moment.
After the ceremony, there was a reception in the courtyard. I’d spent two weeks’ worth of tips on a simple navy blue dress and a pair of low heels from a discount store. I’d done my hair and makeup carefully that morning, using tutorials I’d memorized.
I wanted to look nice for Brandon. I wanted him to be proud of me, the way I was proud of him.
I found Brandon surrounded by his classmates and their families. Everyone was laughing, taking photos, celebrating. I walked up and touched his arm gently.
«Congratulations, Dr. Pierce,» I said, smiling up at him.
He turned and for just a second, barely a moment, I saw something in his eyes. Not happiness or love. Something else, something that looked almost like embarrassment.
«Grace, hey,» he said, his voice flat. He didn’t hug me, didn’t kiss me. Just turned back to his conversation. «Everyone, this is my wife, Grace.»
A tall, elegant woman in a cream-colored suit extended her hand to me. Her nails were perfectly manicured, painted a soft pink.
«Veronica Ashford,» she said, her smile bright and cool. «I work in hospital administration at Metropolitan Elite. We’ve been trying to recruit Brandon for months.»