“Don’t start,” he said.
I looked at the containers, the dishes, his guitar, and the rent reminder glowing on my laptop.
Nine years sat down at the table with me.
“You’re right,” I said.
He blinked. “What?”
“I’m not your wife.”
His face softened with relief, like he thought I had finally understood him.
“You’re right.”
“Exactly. So stop putting all this pressure on me.”
I nodded once. “Okay.”
He stared at me, unsure if he had won.
Then he stood, grabbed his guitar, and went to bed.
I stayed in the kitchen.
I thought heartbreak would be loud. Instead, it felt like a light turning on.
“Stop putting all this pressure on me.”
I opened my banking app.
Rent. Electricity. Internet. Groceries. Scott’s phone. Two equipment payments.
All me.
***
That night, I was grateful for every paper I had saved.
Then my calendar pinged.
“Dinner for Scott.”
I opened my banking app.
I stared at the reminder, then at the bedroom door. He was sleeping like nothing had happened.
I picked up my phone and called Chelsea.
She answered on the third ring. “Ari? What’s wrong? It’s late.”
“He said I’m not his wife.”
Her breathing changed. “Say that again.”
“He told me to stop expecting him to act like a husband.”
“Ari? What’s wrong?”
“After you asked him to do what?”
“Throw away takeout boxes and load the dishwasher.”
Chelsea went quiet.
I wiped my cheek with the heel of my hand. “The worst part is, he’s right.”
“Ariana, don’t.”
“I’m not defending him. I’m saying he’s right that I’m not his wife. So why am I paying like one? Cleaning like one? Waiting like one?”
“What are you going to do?”
“The worst part is, he’s right.”
I looked at the dinner reminder again.
“I’m still having dinner tomorrow.”
“Ari.”
“Not for him.”
***
The next morning, I woke before my alarm. Scott was still asleep, one arm over his face, breathing like a man with no bills due.
I made coffee for myself.
“I’m still having dinner tomorrow.”
