Maybe a year.
That year became three, then five.
And now, we were heading into our 10th year of marriage, and Eric hadn’t worked a single stable job since.
I paid for everything.
The rent, the utilities, groceries, his phone, his gym membership, even Rachel’s tuition.
Not because I wanted to, but because his mom asked, and Eric said, “She’s family. We have to help her.”
Vivien never thanked me.
Not once.
Instead, she made comments like, “Some women just have that servant’s heart, always giving. It’s sweet.”
I’d hear her whisper to her friends, “Nina’s the practical one. Not very bright, but dependable, like a little mule.”
I heard all of it.
And I stayed quiet.
Every Christmas, I bought the tree.
I wrapped the gifts and placed her name on them so she could pretend they were from her.
Every birthday, I paid for the cake, the food, the gifts.
And she’d smile proudly and say, “Look what I got you, Eric.”
He never corrected her.
I told myself, “It’s okay. One day they’ll see. One day they’ll thank you.”
But that day never came.
Once, when I came home from work with a migraine so bad I couldn’t see straight, I found Vivien sitting on the couch watching a movie, empty dishes on the table, and the smell of burnt popcorn in the air.
“Vivien,” I said gently. “Could you please help clean up a bit when I’m at work?”
She blinked at me and smiled.
“I thought that was your job, sweetie.”
Eric didn’t say a word.
I didn’t cry that night, but I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d made a mistake.
Was love supposed to feel like carrying 10 people on your back while they laughed at you?
Was marriage supposed to feel like loneliness with a ring on your finger?
And yet, I still cooked.
Still cleaned.
Still smiled.
Because I told myself, “You are the strong one. You are the one holding it all together.”
But what I didn’t realize was this.
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