“Starting next month, we split everything evenly,” he said in a voice so casual it sounded like he was requesting more water. “I am not carrying someone who does not contribute anymore.”
I froze with the serving spoon suspended in midair because I assumed there would be a smirk or a softening that would signal a joke.
There was none.
“Excuse me?” I asked carefully, keeping my tone measured because the children were upstairs finishing homework.
He set his phone face down and folded his hands as if presenting a strategic proposal in a boardroom.
“This is not the past,” he said evenly. “If you live here, you pay half of everything. Mortgage. Utilities. Groceries. Insurance. Fifty fifty.”
I looked around the dining room that I had painted a muted ivory. I looked at the curtains I stitched on an old sewing machine inherited from my grandmother in Ohio. I looked at the framed photos of vacations I planned down to the minute so he could relax between conference calls.
“I do contribute,” I replied quietly.
Russell gave a small, dismissive laugh.
“You do not work,” he said.
The words landed harder than shouting would have.