I haven’t fucked it up.
I didn’t run away.
She saw my parents, saw me—and we’re figuring it out.
We’re sharing a bedroom and a bathroom, eating most of our meals together.
We talk and watch TV, hang out with the crew—we’ve even put the crib and rocking chair together.
We’re still negotiating the paint color for the nursery, but that’s more fun than anything else.
So why haven’t you talked to her about those bills?
Because…I’m an idiot.
Same reason as I ask, “Did you buy this all today?”
She frowns—gaze going from the basket to the small pile of clothes on the couch and coffee table. “Um, yeah.”
“Why? I could have paid for them.”
It’s accusatory, and it makes her eyes flash.
“Excuse me?”
“Fuck, sorry,” I say quickly. “I…I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it?”
“I know you’ve been working so hard, I don’t want you to have to worry about it. You should be saving your money instead of?—”
Her eyes flash again. “Instead of what exactly?”
“I just mean…”
She sets the onesie aside. “You mean what exactly?”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
“You’ve been acting weird about money for weeks now. Are you feeling like things are unfair? Do you need me to contribute more?”
“No.” I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant. I have plenty of money. You should use yours to do what you want.”
“Like to not pay the mortgage or the water bill or even the garbage bill? Or for groceries or meals out? Now I’m not even supposed to buy baby clothes, is that right?”
“Harp, I don’t?—”
“Mean that? Except…it seems like you do. Because every time I try to pay for something you stop me.”
Fuck.
This isn’t how I wanted this conversation to go.
“Baby, I?—”
“So tell me, is this about your parents? Do you have some hang up about me paying for things because your mom demanded to be taken care of?” She shakes her head. “I like to work. I like to pay my own way. And I need to contribute?—”
