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 was putting 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 anyone who doesn't contribute."
I froze, my spoon suspended in mid-air.
I waited for the punchline.
There were none.
“Excuse me?” I asked cautiously.
He put the phone down in front of him with an eerie composure, as if he had 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 furnished.
The curtains I sewed myself.
The dining table we bought on installment plans when money was tight.
“I’m doing my part,” I said softly.
He laughed lightly.
“You don’t work.”
That sentence was more profound than any other.
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