For a year I paid every light bill, grocery run, and luxury whim while Oliver swore he was “saving for our dream.” The fridge I restocked every Sunday emptied by Wednesday; cranberry sauce vanished to “stray dogs,” ribeyes to “the shelter,” and detergent to “a neighbor in need.” When I asked, he flashed the same grin: “You handle the house, babe—I’m handling the future.”
The future arrived in the driveway—sleek, midnight-blue, and titled only in his name. He called it “our” sports car, then explained it was too delicate for my driving. That was the moment the ledger in my head flipped red.
The next dawn I tailed him—bags of my organic strawberries in hand—and watched him deliver them straight to his mother’s porch. Carol greeted him in slippers, kissed his cheek, and unloaded my groceries like monthly rent. Her parting wisdom: “Why buy apples when the neighbor’s tree is full?”
I returned home, smiled sweetly, and arranged a ribbon-tied surprise of my own. That evening Oliver’s prized coupe sat in Carol’s carport—keys, title, and insurance paperwork ceremoniously handed over. “You always said family shares,” I reminded him. “Enjoy the payments.”
He stood between mother and mortgage, keys gone, excuses spent. I walked out with one suitcase and the last carton of almond-milk yogurt—this time, bought with my own name on the receipt.