Diary of an Endodontist in Trouble – Richmond Hill, Ontario
Tuesday, 7:00 a.m.
I fix teeth for a living. Root canals, infections, the kind of pain people dread until I save them. But today, the only root I can’t fix is the rot in my marriage.
Tuesday, 9:00 a.m.
Every morning for two weeks, I sent my wife flowers (Local Flower Delivery). Roses, lilies, tulips—arranged perfectly, delivered to our door like clockwork. Not from a florist, but from my supplier friends. A professional courtesy, I thought. A romantic gesture, I hoped.
But she never brought them inside. She dumped them in the garbage, the petals bruised like my ego.
Tuesday, 11:00 a.m.
Why? Because of her. Not a mistress, not a patient—but a rep from a luxury door and window manufacturer. A woman with European samples and perfect timing. She came into our home to discuss replacements, and suddenly, my wife was convinced I had something to hide.
Tuesday, 1:00 p.m.
Truth: the windows were delayed. Stuck in France. Customs issues. Logistics hell. Instead of listening, my wife went full project manager:
• Hired a customs broker to chase down the shipment.
• Called an HVAC company to fix the “ducks” (ducts) above.
• Micromanaged every hinge and handle as if it were open-heart surgery.
Tuesday, 3:00 p.m.
Meanwhile, my bouquets piled up in the trash. Even my dental assistant started whispering, “Doc, are you… okay at home?”
Tuesday, 6:00 p.m.
She locked me out. My own house. My own life. Patients trust me to drill into their molars, but my wife won’t trust me to explain a late shipment.
Tuesday, 10:00 p.m.
I wrote her a letter. Ink-stained, not emailed. I confessed: there was no affair. The flowers weren’t guilt—they were strategy. A distraction, a cushion. My master plan to quietly handle the import nightmare myself. Because I knew if she saw the invoices, the customs forms, the HVAC bills—she’d never agree.
So I let her believe the worst, thinking it was easier than explaining European shipping delays.
Wednesday, 12:00 a.m.
Now I sit in my clinic, staring at root canal files and wondering: if I can save a dying tooth, why can’t I save my marriage?
Maybe she’ll read the letter. Maybe she won’t. But one thing is certain—
no anesthetic exists for the pain of watching your wife toss your flowers into the trash.