I lived with him for ten years as his wife. But when I finally asked him to do it one day, he laughed, “It’s just a piece of paper.” I didn’t object. And that morning, he saw something in the kitchen that made him really afraid to lose me.
My name is Laura. I’m thirty-eight.
I met Michael ten years ago at a mutual friend’s birthday party.
He was calm, attentive and reliable. He always remembered what kind of coffee I liked, he called when he was late, and when I was with him, I felt like I finally found a man I could put on with family.
A year later, we moved in together.
A few years later we bought a house in a quiet neighborhood.
Because of Michael’s bad credit history, the mortgage was registered solely in my name. I also paid most of my own contribution.
But I never said to him, “This is my home.”
For me, it was our home.
We set up a joint account, paid the bills together, did a renovation, adopted a dog from a shelter and gradually created the life I dreamed of.
Everyone thought of us as a husband and wife.
Michael even sometimes portrayed me as his wife.
Except I didn’t have a ring on my hand.
At first, I didn’t pay much attention to it.
Then there were excuses.
“Let’s get a job first.”
“Now not the time, too much spending.”
“Let’s finish the renovation first.”
“We have to save some more.”
I believed everyone’s word.
Because we were together.
And I was sure the postage stamp wouldn’t change anything.
But on our 10th anniversary wedding I realized I didn’t want to wait any longer.
I didn’t want a lavish wedding.
I didn’t want an expensive ring.
I just needed one thing – to hear that after ten years he really chose me.
I booked a table in a good restaurant.
At dinner, gathering courage, I said calmly:
“Michael, maybe we should finally get married? Even if it’s just a little ceremony for our loved ones.’
He’s gone.
He put down the fork.
And then he laughed.
I’ll never forget that laugh.
“Laura, are you serious?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head.
“I’ll never marry you.”
I felt like I had gotten in the face.
