I stared at my phone, stunned. Twenty dollars for using the internet in our own home? The same internet we both paid for every month? The same internet he used every evening to watch his YouTube videos?
That’s when something inside me snapped. It wasn’t about the money. Twenty dollars was nothing in the grand scheme of things. It was what it represented. My husband was nickel – and – diming me over a basic utility in our shared home, just minutes before the most important professional call of my year.
Somehow, I managed to push it aside and ace my presentation. My potential client was impressed and asked for a formal proposal by the end of the week.
Under normal circumstances, I’d have been over the moon, calling Thomas right away to share the good news. Instead, I sat at my desk, staring at that Venmo request, a cold feeling spreading through my chest.
That evening, after work, I knew Thomas would be at the gym for at least two hours, so I stayed at my desk, opened a spreadsheet, and started calculating.
I added up every load of laundry I’d done in the past two years. Every dish I’d washed. Every meal I’d cooked. Every grocery run. Every time I’d cleaned the bathroom or vacuumed the living room. Every bill I’d paid. Every appointment I’d scheduled.
I assigned each task an hourly rate based on our city’s market value for housekeeping, cooking, administrative work, and personal shopping services. By the time I was done, the total came to $20,254.
I formatted it into a professional – looking invoice, listing each service, the hours spent, and the rate. I added a payment due date: 30 days from today, just like any other bill. I even included a late – fee clause.
After printing it out, I walked over to Thomas’s desk in the corner of our living room. I placed my invoice right on top, so he couldn’t miss it the next morning.
Then I went to our bedroom and packed a bag. Nothing extreme, just enough clothes for a few days, my laptop, and toiletries. I’d already called my sister the week before, after the Wi – Fi incident, asking if I could stay with her if I needed to. She said yes right away.
I didn’t sleep much that night. Thomas came home from the gym, took a shower, and got into bed without noticing my packed bag in the corner of our closet. He fell asleep quickly, while I lay awake, wondering if I was overreacting.
But every time I started to doubt myself, I remembered all those Venmo requests, all those times my husband treated me more like a roommate than a partner.
Morning came, and I got up early, made coffee, and sat at the kitchen table with my phone, scrolling through emails but not really reading them.
Thomas’s routine was predictable: he’d wake up at 7:00 a.m., go straight to his desk to check his accounts and plan his day, and then come to the kitchen for breakfast.
Right on cue, I heard him stir in the bedroom. Footsteps padded across the hardwood floor toward his desk. There was silence for about 30 seconds, then:
“What the hell is this?!”
His voice echoed through our small house as he stormed into the kitchen, the invoice in his hand, his face red with anger.