And then something inside me twists. Snaps. Sam grew up different. He works hard, sure, but he’s never had to count quarters the way we did.
We didn’t have a washer and dryer. My mom drove usacross town to the cheapest laundromat, stuffing everything into one machine to save a few dollars. I did homework on a detergent-sticky countertop and checked under machines for spare coins.
A little piece of home while you're away?
Is that what he thinks this is? A getaway? A sabbatical?
Am I supposed to thank him for remembering the scent of the househe signed over to himself? Sure, I created the paperwork, but he signed it and didn’t even fight for me to stay inhishome.
Because that’s what he did. Legally. The postnup says so. I saw it. I had it reviewed. Our house.His name.
I grab my phone and scroll through his contact. No more gifts. No more nostalgia. No more pretending this is romantic.
I hit call.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey?—”
“Don’theyme.” My voice shakes. Not from nerves. From fury. “Stop leaving me little memory bombs on the porch like this is some kind of reunion countdown. You signed the house over to yourself, Sam. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
A beat of silence. He exhales. “Becca …”
“No,” I cut in. “You don’t get to act like this is temporary. You don’t get to make me cry with laundry soap while you own the house I made with you, in every way that mattered.”
“I didn’t do it to hurt you—it’s the opposite.”
“But you did. And now you’re trying to backpedal with cupcakes and Chapstick like I’m supposed to come home wagging my tail. I’m not your dog, Sam!”
“I know you’re not,” he says quietly. “You’re everything I got right, until I blew it.”
My stomach flips. But I won’t soften. Not yet.
“You want to fix this?” I snap. “Start by not acting like Ileft. You pushed me out.” And with that, I hang up.
I drive to work, stewing in my anger. Yes, he is sweet. Yes, I appreciate the kind gestures. But does he think a few presents is going to fix what is broken? I never said my feelings out loud. Never told him how it felt to come second to Holly and everyone else. But Sam knew my history with money.
Only a few months after Sam asked me to marry him, we’re lying together in bed, legs around each other, him drawing lazy patterns on my arms, my head on his chest.
“Big wedding or small?” I ask, voice muffled.
“Small, of course. I don’t like that many people besides you.” He nuzzles in and kisses my head while I sigh at that statement.
“Okay, how many kids?” I wonder next.
"As many as you’ll give me.”
“Sam,” I exclaim, swatting him playfully.
He laughs. “Alright, two. One boy, one girl. But if you happen to throw twins in there I won’t be mad.”
“You know I can’t control the sex of the baby.”
“Sure you can. I know you can coax the right swimmers in an organized fashion.”
I laugh as he rolls over to look at me.
“Okay, next question. Separate or joint finances?” I ask as my voice wavers a bit.
“Baby, joint of course. We’re a team, what’s mine is yours.”
