Fresh from a year of brutal hours, extra credentials and a marathon to the next pay grade, the world says congrats and the fiancé says «we did it.» Cute, for about five breaths. By the sixth, «we’re making six figures» is on repeat and «we can finally afford a nicer car» starts to sound a little like someone buying lottery tickets with someone else’s coin.

The new collective pronoun comes with an interesting twist. No parallel promotion. No fresh paycheck. Just a couple of months served in the volunteer economy, courtesy of one partner’s endless job hunt. When the request for individual acknowledgment lands, the fiancé pivots to a greatest hits tour of guilt, weaving teamwork into every reason why individual achievement is selfish. The only thing missing is the sweat stains from all that hard work—that part stayed on one side of the bed.