For ten years I woke before him. Ten years arranging his meetings, his meals, his travel. Ten years pausing my own ambitions “so he could succeed.”

And that evening, as I was placing dinner on the table, he said it casually — like asking for more water.

“Starting next month, we split everything. I’m not supporting someone who doesn’t contribute.”

I froze, serving spoon suspended in midair.
I waited for the punchline.

There wasn’t one.

“Excuse me?” I asked carefully.

He set his phone down in front of him with unsettling composure — as if he had rehearsed this speech.

“This isn’t the 1950s. If you live here, you pay your share. Fifty-fifty.”

I looked around the room.

The home I decorated.
The curtains I stitched myself.
The dining table we bought on installments when money was tight.