He looked at me like I’d suggested something ridiculous. «Grace, image matters in my field. Where we live, what we drive, how we present ourselves—it all matters. Besides, it’s good for you to keep working. Independence is important.»
Independence. That’s what he called it now.
We moved to a luxury apartment in the River District. Brandon bought a BMW and expensive suits. He joined a gym that cost $300 a month.
He got his hair cut at a salon that charged more than I made in a week of waitressing. And I kept working my two jobs. I’d quit the cleaning job, at least, paying my share of our life while watching Brandon transform into someone I barely recognised.
The comments became constant. «Grace, why don’t you do something with your hair?» «Grace, that shirt is really worn out.» «Grace, maybe you should read the news more. You never know what’s happening in the world.»
«Grace, I can’t take you to the hospital fundraiser. You wouldn’t fit in.»
Every criticism felt like a knife. I was the same woman who’d worked herself half to death for him. The same woman who’d given up her education, her youth, her dreams.
But now I wasn’t enough. I was too simple. Too plain. Too unsophisticated.