My husband Daniel had hated his nose since high school. He avoided profile pictures, deleted photos he didn’t like, and whenever someone took a picture, he’d joke, “Get my good side.”
Then he’d laugh as if it didn’t matter.
But I knew it did.
A few months before his 36th birthday, I found Daniel looking at a plastic surgeon’s website. He admitted he’d wanted surgery for years but couldn’t justify spending so much money on himself.
I had been saving for a new car,KH but I decided his happiness mattered more. I paid for the surgery.
Daniel cried when I gave him the clinic estimate.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know,” I told him. “That’s why I did.”
The surgery went well, but the first week was difficult. I took care of his medication, made his meals, changed his ice packs, and stayed beside him when he couldn’t sleep.
