She ate grilled salmon with asparagus while he scraped blackened marinara into the trash.
On the seventeenth day, Diego came home with flowers.
Paola looked at them, then at him. “Are those for me or did your mother suggest a performance?”
His face fell. “Can you not do that?”
“Can you answer honestly?”
He set the flowers on the counter. “Mom said I should apologize.”
Paola nodded. “There it is.”
“But I know I need to,” he added quickly. “I was wrong.”
She waited.
“I shouldn’t have said I was tired of supporting you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“And I didn’t realize how much you were paying.”
Paola laughed softly, not because it was funny. “Diego, I sent you the household budget every month.”
“I didn’t read it.”
“I know.”
He looked ashamed for the first time. Real shame, not embarrassment. There was a difference.
“I thought because you handled it, it was handled,” he said.
“Yes. And because it was handled, you assumed it was easy.”
He nodded slowly. “I was an idiot.”
“No,” Paola said. “You were comfortable.”
That landed harder.
He pulled out a chair and sat down. “What do we do now?”
Paola looked at the man she had loved. She did still love him, and that made everything more complicated. Love did not erase disrespect. Love did not refill bank accounts. Love did not un-say what he had said with such casual certainty in the kitchen.
“We continue separate finances,” she said.
His eyes widened. “Still?”
“Yes. But properly. Written expenses. Proportional contributions based on income. Shared chores. No family meals unless both of us agree, both of us pay, and everyone contributes.”
He swallowed. “And my mom?”
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