When Tyler asked me to move in, I thought it meant we were building a life together. Six weeks later, I opened the fridge and found an invoice for rent, utilities, and even a “comfort fee.” He owns the place outright. So, what exactly was I contributing to?
Tyler and I had been dating for almost two years, and I found myself at his
place more often than not.
After all, I was staying in a tiny apartment with two roommates and no privacy,
but Tyler lived alone in a sweet place his parents had bought for him when he
nished grad school.
One night, we were watching the sunset over the city when everything
changed.
“You know something?” Tyler said, pulling me closer. “You basically live here
already. Why not just make it ofcial?”
My heart skipped a beat. I’d been waiting for a sign that our relationship was
moving forward, that Tyler saw a future with me the way I saw one with him.
“Are you serious?” I asked. His eyes looked sincere in the fading light.
“Never been more serious about anything,” he replied, planting a kiss on my
forehead.
So I agreed, believing this was the beginning of our shared life together.
The next weekend was a urry of activity.
My best friend Mia helped move boxes while my brother and Tyler carried
furniture up three ights of stairs.
Tyler and I bought a new sofa together.
I positioned my plants near the windows and arranged framed photos on the
walls.
“This place has never looked better,” Tyler commented as I cooked dinner that
rst night in our shared home. “It’s like it was missing something before, and
that something was you.”
I beamed, stirring the pasta sauce. “I’m glad you think so.”
“This just feels right. Like a team,” he added, wrapping his arms around my
waist from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. “It’s our home, now.”
For weeks, everything was perfect.
I cleaned and cooked more than my fair share, but I didn’t mind. I learned
Tyler’s routines and adjusted mine.
I noticed he liked his towels folded a certain way, so I folded them that way.
I made his favorite meals and kept track of his workout schedule.
I was all in, and I thought he was too… until six weeks after I moved in. That morning, I opened the fridge
to get orange juice and found an envelope taped to the carton.
At rst, I thought the envelope was a sweet note or maybe concert tickets. Tyler had mentioned a band
he wanted to see. But when I opened it, I found something else entirely.
It was a typed, itemized invoice:
Rent: $1,100
Electricity: $85
Internet: $50
“Wear and tear fee”: $40
“Comfort contribution”: $75Total due by the 5th: $1,350
I laughed, thinking it was some weird joke. I turned to Tyler, who was leaning against the counter,
sipping his protein shake.
“Very funny,” I said, waving the paper.
He smiled back, but not in a joking way. This was more condescending, like he was amused by my
naivete.
“It’s not a joke. You live here now. This is what adults do. You contribute.”
I felt like I’d been slapped.
“I thought… I thought we were building something together.”
“We are,” he said,