He Thanked The Wrong Wife
For four years, I worked three jobs to support my husband, Edward Godfrey, while he chased his PhD and battled ALS.
And somehow, in all that time, I'd never stepped foot on his campus.
Not because I didn't want to. Every time I brought it up, he had some excuse ready.
When graduation came, I asked to go to his hooding ceremony.
He shut it down fast.
"It's just a formality. A bunch of lab nerds. You'd be bored. Once I bring the diploma home, we'll have a candlelight dinner."
I didn't argue. Just helped him straighten his doctoral gown.
But I couldn't hide how excited I was.
So I dressed up.
And secretly followed him.
Onstage, Edward stood beside his wheelchair, voice thick with emotion.
"I want to thank my wife. She stood with me in the lab, even while pregnant, helping me grind out countless precious data points."
I froze.
My hand pressed against my flat stomach. Cold crept down my spine.
For four years, I'd busted myself raw to support his PhD. I went from the girl everyone on campus admired to a fish seller, reeking like seafood every day.
Worked so hard I miscarried twice.
So who exactly was this "wife" he was thanking?