The promotion email still glowed on his laptop screen, the subject line shouting Senior Regional Sales Manager, Congratulations. The bottle of champagne I had bought chilled untouched in the refrigerator while I stood at the counter slicing a bell pepper and trying to steady my breathing.
“Separate accounts?” I asked, keeping my voice level as I looked at my husband across the kitchen island.
“Yeah,” he said, folding his arms with that self satisfied grin he wore after closing a deal. “I am not your ATM, Megan, I worked for this promotion and I am done carrying everything while you play around with that little freelance hobby.”
My freelance hobby had once covered our mortgage for three straight years before his raise ever happened. It had also paid for his MBA and the stock options I cashed out when my tech job cut me loose last year.
“Okay,” I replied, wiping my hands on a towel as if he had suggested a different brand of cereal. “If that is what you want.”
He blinked, clearly expecting a fight that never came. “We split everything fifty fifty from now on, utilities, groceries, mortgage, and we close the joint checking account.”