He said it like I’d committed some kind of crime. Like I’d done something unforgivable.
Because in his world, she had.
He called me spoiled. Said I thought money grew on trees. That I had no idea what it meant to work, to keep things afloat.
My chest tightens as I read.
And maybe he’s right.
The line lands quietly.
Too quietly.
He works. He earns. I spend. Maybe I don’t understand the pressure he’s under. Maybe I make it worse.
I press my lips together, anger simmering beneath the surface.
But he didn’t stop.
Of course he didn’t.
He never does once he starts.
The words unravel now, slower, heavier.
He said I was selfish. Irresponsible. Ungrateful. That I was trying to make him look like the bad guy just because he cares about our future.
Gaslighting.
Clear as day.
I tried to apologize. I always do.
My fingers curl slightly.
I hate crying in front of him, but I couldn’t stop. It just… happens.
Because he pushes you there.
“You’re always sorry,” he said. “But sorry doesn’t fix anything.”
The cruelty in it is almost clinical.
And maybe he’s right.
I feel something cold settle in my chest.
Maybe I am the problem.
There it is.
The fracture.
So I didn’t argue. I never do. Because what if he’s right? What if I am selfish? What if I’m the reason things feel so… hard?
I shake my head slightly, even as I keep reading.
He kept going until he ran out of things to say, and then he left. Slammed the door like punctuation at the end of it.
