“Yes.”
There was a pause.
“Income verification and credit approval would be required.”
That landed exactly where I knew it would.
Marcus turned toward me.
“You planned this?”
“No.”
I pointed toward the food.
“I planned that.”
His eyes moved to the catered dinner.
Then to the cake.
Then back to me.
“What?”
“That dinner was supposed to celebrate your contract.”
He stared at me.
“I ordered it before last night.”
“Then what is all this?”
I looked directly at him.
“Last night you told me I wasn’t your wife.”
He exhaled sharply.
“Claire, seriously? This is about that?”
“No.”
“You’re moving out because of one stupid argument?”
“No.”
“Because I didn’t clean some dishes?”
“No.”
His voice rose.
“Then what the hell is happening?”
I opened the folder in front of me.
“This is happening.”
Inside were twelve months of household expenses.
I slid the first page toward him.
Marcus barely looked at it.
“What is this?”
“Rent.”
Another page.
“Utilities.”
Another.
“Groceries.”
Another.
“Your phone.”
Another.
“Camera insurance.”
Another.
“Your Adobe subscription.”
He stopped.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because apparently I needed paperwork to see what my relationship actually looked like.”
His face reddened.
“You said you supported my career.”
“I did.”
“So what? Now you’re punishing me because I’m finally succeeding?”
“No.”
“Sure looks like it.”
Natalie started to speak.
I raised my hand gently.
I wanted to answer him myself.
“I’m not punishing you, Marcus.”
“Then what do you call this?”
“I call it taking you seriously.”
He frowned.
“You told me I’m not your wife.”
“I was angry.”
“But you were right.”
That stopped him.
I continued.
“We never got married. You never proposed. Every time I brought up the future, you said you needed your career established first.”
“Claire—”
“For ten years, I’ve been paying like a wife. Planning like a wife. Cleaning like a wife. Supporting you like a wife. Rearranging my life around yours like a wife.”
“I never asked you to do all that.”
There it was.
The sentence I somehow knew was coming.
I nodded.
“You’re right.”
He opened his mouth.
I continued before he could speak.
“You didn’t ask me to sacrifice my office so you could have a studio. You didn’t ask me to pay the extra rent. You didn’t ask me to fix your car or cover your phone or buy groceries every week.”
His expression softened slightly.
“Exactly.”
“But you accepted every single one of those things.”
His face changed again.
“And whenever I needed something from you,” I said, “you acted like basic responsibility was some unreasonable demand.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Last night I asked you to put a plate in the dishwasher.”
“I was tired.”
“So was I.”
“You know how much pressure I’ve been under.”
“So do you know how much pressure I’ve been under?”
Silence.
I waited.
He had no answer.
For ten years, Marcus always had something to say.
That night, finally, he didn’t.
