I thought I was handling it well. I’d gotten used to the long hours, the holidays alone, the way our conversations had become rushed five-minute check-ins. I’d built a life around his absence—yoga, kickboxing, books, movies, going to parties by myself. Most days, I kept so busy I forgot how much I missed him.
But yesterday, he told me he’d made plans to see his friends on his one free evening. After we hung up, I broke down in tears. I’d been looking forward to that time all week. And I couldn’t even be mad.
It was his only day off. It wouldn’t have been fair to demand it for myself. He’s the love of my life. We’ve been together for four years, and through everything, we’ve been each other’s support.
When we met, he was unemployed after quitting his job as an EMT. He didn’t feel like it was for him. He was searching for direction. He’d always loved cooking, so I urged him to follow that passion.
I encouraged him to enroll in culinary school. He moved up fast. After graduating and two years in the industry, he became the sous chef at a hot new restaurant. He’s come alive since switching careers.
There’s a fire in him now, a sparkle in his eyes when he talks about the kitchen, new recipes, his dream of opening his own place. I’m so proud of him. Seeing that passion makes me love him even more. But I had no idea how demanding his career would be.
He works seventy, sometimes eighty hours a week. We don’t live together. I only see him for a few hours on the weekends, and half that time we’re asleep because it’s three in the morning and he’s exhausted. He gets one day off a week, if that.
He works every holiday—Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day. Birthdays and anniversaries aren’t guaranteed either. We hardly ever have sex. There’s no time and no energy.
When we do spend time together on those rare Mondays, we don’t go out. He’s too tired. I cherish those moments on the couch because they don’t happen often. I don’t tell him about my loneliness.
I don’t want to burden him on his one day of rest. This is just the nature of the industry. He can’t do anything about it. But I can’t stop thinking about the future.
This is the man I want to grow old with, the man I want to have babies with. Then I think about how I feel on days like yesterday, and I wonder if his career will ever let him be present. Am I okay with eating every meal alone? With handling the household and raising children like a single parent?
With him only being home long enough to sleep? We’re planning on moving in together in the next six months. I’m not sure if that will help us or just prolong the inevitable. I told him about my feelings before, but not every time I’m upset.
It always ends with him saying, “I’m sorry, but this is how it’s going to be. Can you handle that? ”
He says things are crazy because he’s putting in his time and opening a new restaurant. Essentially, being a chef means long hours and little time for us.
I read so many stories from people who’ve lived this life. One woman described growing up with a chef father. As a little girl, she used to wait up in bed until one or two in the morning, listening for him to come home. Then she’d pretend something woke her up just so she could sit with him for thirty minutes before bed.
Her parents’ relationship was always strained. He resented her mother for not being great at housework when he worked his ass off all week. She never felt close to him because he was never there. Another woman shared that her husband was a chef and it was already severely straining their marriage after only a year.
I started to realize this wasn’t what I wanted for my family. I didn’t want to wait until retirement to be happy. I wanted to enjoy my family every moment I could. Four days after I posted, we finally had our much-needed conversation.
I felt horrible bringing up such heavy topics right after he came home stressed and exhausted, but it was the only time we ever had. I asked him the big questions. What’s your five-year career plan? Can you realistically work in a kitchen for the rest of your life?
Is that what you really want? At the mention of working in a kitchen forever, behind eyelids drooping with exhaustion, came that sparkle and fire I both adored and feared would appear. He said, “I want to run my own kitchen. I want to own my own restaurant.
I’m making a name for myself and people are noticing. I want this and I know I can do it. ”
I asked him if he realized what that meant for raising a family, which he always said he wanted. He said it would stay like this—twelve to sixteen-hour shifts every day, getting home after midnight.
His head hung down. He told me we could make it work. “I can have breakfast with the family every morning and take the kids to school,” he suggested. I told him I needed more from a partner.
I want a normal life. I want to have dinner every night as a family. I want to read to our kids together at night. I want holidays and birthdays.
He told me he couldn’t give me any of that. I was hoping and praying the whole time that he would change his path, find a comparable goal that would make a home life possible. But there was no comparison. After hours of talking, we realized this just wouldn’t work.
If we stayed together, either I would resent him for never being around, or he would resent me for making him give up his dream. I would never strip him of that. This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. I almost wish he was an abusive, cheating asshole.
It would have made moving on way easier. But no, he’s wonderful and has always been so good to me. We’re very much in love, and that’s what makes this whole thing so horrible. I never envisioned a future without him.
And he said he always thought he’d be sharing his life’s successes with me. I wish I could be the one standing next to him through it all, but I’m just not cut out for the life he’s offering me. Although I’m glad we figured out our incompatibilities before marriage and children, I’m devastated. I see now he chose the kitchen over me.
But I guess that’s life, and I need to learn to accept it. The more stories I read, the more I know this breakup had to happen for us both to be happy down the line. I never anticipated that strangers on the internet would help me heal. It stings.
But I know I need more of a family man. I never knew that’s what I was looking for until very recently. ¶ Another morning, I went downstairs to clean up a bit, as usual. When I picked up the remote off the floor, I noticed a white McDonald’s cup sitting next to the chair.
Thinking it was just a leftover drink, I went to dump it in the sink—only to realize there was piss in the cup. It was pretty much full. There were ashes at the bottom. He smokes.
It sat behind the chair for who knows how long. It smelled really bad. I didn’t know how to talk to him about it, so I asked for advice. One commenter told me not to ask, but to tell him how finding it affected me.
I wanted to yell at him on the phone when I found it, but I forced myself to think about what I’d say first. He doesn’t drink. There’s no excuse. Our bathroom is thirty feet away.
The next morning, as soon as he got home from work, I told him we needed to have a serious conversation. We both sat down. I told him I found the cup he’d been pissing in behind the chair, that it was the most disgusting thing I’d ever seen, and that I was repulsed he would do that when we have a perfectly working bathroom upstairs. He started to defend himself.
I tried to stay calm, but I couldn’t anymore. It turned into a heated argument. He said the cup was easier to use than going upstairs to the bathroom, which is seriously thirty feet away. And he usually dumps it in the kitchen sink when he’s finished.
That was a deal breaker for me. This had been going on for quite some time. Upon further inspection, I could clearly see urine stains on the floor where the cup had been. How I didn’t know about this sooner, I don’t know, but I’m glad I do now.
I can’t continue to live with this sick freak any longer. I’ll be moving my things out today and staying with my friend for the time being. The only takeaway here is that being toilet trained is essential if you want to appeal to potential sexual partners.
The bar is well and truly in hell.
