Chapter 4

Ethan’s 50/50 rule slowly invaded every single corner of our lives.

If we ran out of hot sauce, he would buy a bottle and immediately text me a photo of the receipt: *Organic Hot Sauce, $7.90. You owe me $3.95.*

Once, my period cramps were so bad I couldn't get out of bed. I asked him to run to the store to buy me some pads.

He came back and slapped the crumpled receipt on my nightstand. *Pads, $10. Venmo or cash?*

"Ethan," I gasped, clutching my stomach in pain. "Could you really not just..."

"Just what?" He looked completely innocent. "These are your personal hygiene products. I have no use for them. Why should I pay?"

The absolute worst incident happened at the grocery store.

I picked up a container of fresh strawberries for $10. He glanced at them, then silently pushed his cart away from mine.

When we reached the register, the cashier asked, "Together or separate?"

"Separate," Ethan said immediately.

I froze. "It's just a carton of strawberries..."

"They're ten dollars," he said, scanning his card for his own items. "If you want them, buy them yourself."

The cashier gave us a look that made me want to melt into the floor.

When we got home, I tried to sit him down. "Ethan, we are husband and wife. Can we please stop keeping score over every single cent?"

"Keeping score is exactly what keeps couples from fighting," he said, turning on his computer to play games. "I'm doing this to save our marriage. Look at all the couples who divorce over money. It’s because they don’t keep their accounts clear."

"But—"

"Chloe," he interrupted impatiently, "if you didn't want a 50/50 marriage, you shouldn't have agreed to it in the first place. You can't just back out now."

I was speechless.

He was right. I had agreed to it. But I had assumed 50/50 meant building a life together, not being treated like a barely tolerated roommate.

I started walking on eggshells.

I stopped buying nice ingredients, terrified he'd demand I pay for half. I stopped asking him to pick up anything for me because I dreaded his "delivery fees." I even tried my best not to get sick, fearing he would call me a burden.

One night, I got a severe case of food poisoning. I was vomiting and passing out.

He reluctantly agreed to drive me to the ER. On the way, he wouldn't stop complaining. "ER copays are incredibly expensive. Are you sure you can't just take some Tylenol and sleep it off?"

When we arrived, he paid the copay at the desk and handed me the receipt. "That’s $150. You owe me."

I lay on the cold hospital bed, the IV needle freezing my hand.

He sat in the chair next to me, staring at his phone. Every now and then, he’d look up at the IV bag. "This bag of fluids is billed at $100. Make sure you note that down."

The older woman in the bed next to mine couldn't take it anymore. "Young man, your wife is hooked up to an IV and you're calculating bills?"

Ethan didn't even look up. "Business is business."

The woman shook her head and shot me a look of deep, overwhelming pity.