I tried to talk to him about it once. I told him it didn’t feel good always being the one to pay. He laughed it off.
“Why are you making this a big deal?” he said. “We’re a team. It all evens out.”
But it didn’t even out.
It felt less like a partnership and more like I was quietly sponsoring his lifestyle.
Still, I loved him. Or at least, I loved the version of him that held my hand in public and talked about our future like it was already written. So when my birthday came around, and he told me he’d made reservations at this ridiculously fancy restaurant downtown, I let myself hope.
Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the night he’d finally show up.
The place was stunning—soft gold lighting, crisp white tablecloths, waiters who moved like dancers. I wore a dress I’d been saving for something special. He told me I looked “expensive.” I chose to take that as a compliment.
Dinner was lovely. He ordered appetizers without asking the price. A bottle of wine. Dessert with a sparkler stuck in it while the staff sang softly. I felt seen. Celebrated.
Until the check came.
I saw it happen in slow motion.
The waiter placed the leather folder gently at the edge of the table. Will glanced at it, smiled at me, then started patting his pockets.
Left pocket. Right pocket. Back pocket.
His forehead creased in mock confusion.
“Oh, babe,” he began, already half-laughing, “you are not going to believe this, but—”
And something inside me snapped.
It wasn’t just about the money. It was about the pattern. The entitlement. The assumption that I would handle it, like I always did. On my birthday.
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