Member-only story
Today is my husband’s 35th birthday.
I woke up, turned to him, and with a soft smile, I said, “Happy birthday.”
He barely looked at me before replying, “There’s no meaning. I’m 35 and still not a manager. I don’t want to celebrate.”
My heart sank.
I know birthdays can be complicated. They mark another year of life, another year of memories, another year of achievements — or, in his eyes, another year of failure.
I wanted to tell him that his worth isn’t tied to a job title. That success isn’t just about promotions and salaries and climbing the corporate ladder. I wanted to remind him of the things that truly matter: the love we share, the family we’ve built, the laughter of our children filling the house, the little moments that make life beautiful.
But I knew that in his mind, none of that mattered right now.
In his mind, he was just stuck.
Just a man who thought he should be further ahead, who thought he should have accomplished more, who saw 35 as a deadline he had missed rather than a milestone worth celebrating.
And that broke me.
Because the truth is, I see him differently. I see the way he wakes up early, tired but determined, to provide for us.
