My husband turned my menopause into a running joke — at home, with friends, and even in public. But when he invited his boss over for a high-stakes dinner, he had no idea the evening would become a turning point — not just for his career, but for our entire marriage.
My name is Irene. I am 52 years old, and for most of my adult life, I have been married to Rick.
For 27 years, we’ve shared space, bills, and slowly shrinking dignity.
Rick, my husband, is a salesman.
He’s charming to outsiders, full of punchlines and pats on the back.
Rick is the kind of man who likes to hold court in the center of a conversation. And lately, his favorite topic has been me.
Or more specifically, my menopause.
Don’t get me wrong, being menopausal didn’t mean I expected pity or special treatment.
But I also didn’t expect my own husband to turn it into a punchline.
It started innocently enough as “jokes,” as he called them.
A smirk when I opened the freezer and leaned into the cold.
He’d say, elbowing me with a grin.
Then came the forgetfulness. I once lost my car keys and heard him mutter, “Menopause brain strikes again!” He’d chuckle as if that softened the blow.
Or if I didn’t remember something, he’d say, “She forgot again — blame the hormones,” and laugh.
Like that made it okay.
At first, it was at home. Then it crept into dinners with friends, family barbecues (BBQs), and neighborhood gatherings. I was mortified!
He always said them as if they were just part of his humor, but they weren’t funny.
Not to me.
Not when every word chipped away at something inside me.
But I learned to smile through it while shrinking inside.
I would grin and count my breaths until I could excuse myself to the bathroom. There I stared into the mirror, wondering how much more of this I could take.
If you know, you know.
Then came the night everything shifted.
Rick invited his boss, David, over for dinner — just him, no other seniors.
It was the big one. The night that, in Rick’s words, would “seal the deal” for the promotion he’d been chasing for more than a year.
I wasn’t consulted, of course, just told.
“Be on your best behavior,” my husband said while fixing his hair in the mirror.
“Try to look nice. And PLEASE don’t get emotional.”
I obediently cooked the meal and set the table.
I even wore a dress I hadn’t touched in years.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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