There’s something intoxicating about someone wanting to provide for you. It blinds you to the fine print they’ve hidden in their generosity.
When my boyfriend Matt suggested we move in together, I thought it was a dream.
“Think about it, Alice,” he said. “We practically live together already. Why pay for two places?”
It made sense. I loved my job at the shelter, but it didn’t pay much. Matt, with his high-paying remote tech job, reassured me. “I’ll take care of us,” he said.
We found a cozy apartment, and I was excited to start our life together. But when I returned from grabbing lunch, I found all my belongings stuffed into a hall closet while Matt’s things took over the entire space.
“I’m paying for this place, so I set the rules,” he shrugged. “You should cook, too. It’s the least you can do.”
I didn’t argue. Instead, I called his father. Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Reynolds arrived, slapped a dollar on the counter, and told Matt, “Dance.”
That night, I moved out.
Now, in my own space, I know one thing: real love doesn’t come with conditions. And I won’t settle for anything less.
