For ten years, I woke up before him. Ten years of organizing his meetings, his meals, his trips. Ten years of putting my ambitions on hold “so he could succeed.”
And that evening, as I put dinner on the table, he said it nonchalantly, as if asking for more water.
“Starting next month, we’ll split everything. I won’t support those who don’t contribute.”
I froze, spoon suspended in midair.
I waited for the punchline.
There wasn’t one.
“Excuse me?” I asked cautiously.
He placed the phone in front of him with an uncanny composure, as if he’d rehearsed the speech.
“This isn’t the 1950s. If you live here, you pay your dues. Fifty-fifty.”
I looked around the room.
The house I decorated.
The curtains I sewed myself.
The dining table we bought on installment plans when money was tight.
“I contribute,” I said softly.
He laughed lightly.
“You don’t work.”
That sentence was more profound than any other.
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