Thomas’s obsession with fairness morphed into something else entirely.
👉 If I took a longer shower, I owed extra for the gas bill.
👉 If he didn’t eat the groceries I bought, they were my expense alone.
👉 Cleaning supplies? My responsibility since I cleaned more.
👉 Netflix? Split 70/30 because, apparently, I watched more shows.
👉 Laundry detergent? Mostly mine—because I had more clothes.
Then came the real kicker: Venmo requests for meals I cooked.
I’d make his favorite pasta, and a few hours later—ding!—a request for his “portion” of the ingredients, like I was some short-order chef in my own home.
I swallowed my frustration for months. Told myself this was just how Thomas saw money—cold, logical, transactional. That maybe, one day, he’d loosen up and see our marriage as a partnership, not an accounting ledger.
But that Monday, as I sat at my desk preparing for the biggest presentation of my career, my phone buzzed.
$20. “Wi-Fi usage fee. You’re working from home, I’m at the office.”
I stared at the screen, feeling a coldness spread through my chest.
Minutes before I was about to secure a client who could double my business, my husband decided to charge me for using our internet. The same internet we both paid for.
I powered through my presentation, nailed it, and secured a follow-up. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve been ecstatic. Would’ve called Thomas right away to celebrate.
Instead, I opened my laptop and made a spreadsheet.
I tallied every meal I cooked. Every load of laundry I did. Every bill I managed. Every dish I washed. Every appointment I scheduled.
