Her job ended my relationship with a nurse. She took an emergency shift, leaving me alone at our dinner reservation. My calls went unanswered. When she finally called back, she was in tears—she had lost a patient.
She was never truly present. We tried planning peaceful weekends, but her schedule always shifted at the last minute. One weekend, I watched her head out for a 12-hour shift, and when she returned, she didn’t even glance at me. She collapsed onto the couch and fell asleep without a word.
I also dated a chef. Instead of enjoying the meals I made, he would dissect them. “The sauce is too salty.” “You overcooked the pasta.” Every dinner felt like a failed performance. Even reheating leftovers earned a disapproving sigh—he’d simply say they “looked sad.”
After one particularly humiliating meal, I stopped cooking for him altogether. I had spent hours following a recipe for a dish I knew he liked. He took one bite, set his fork down, and muttered, “This isn’t how it’s supposed to taste.” That was it. No appreciation, just criticism, as if I were a contestant on a cooking show. I realized I was dating a perfectionist who cared more about food than about me.