“I thought maybe we could.”
Michael stared at me.
“Buy something together?”
“Yes.”
“Fifty-fifty?”
“If we both contribute equally.”
“I can do that now.”
“I know.”
His eyes grew bright. Pride without comparison.
“I would like that,” he said.
“So would I.”
“Wait.”
“What?”
“If we buy together, I get input on the kitchen.”
“Reasonable.”
“And no white sofa.”
“We have discussed this.”
“White sofas are hostile to human life.”
“They are elegant.”
“They are stains waiting for purpose.”
Michael resumed stirring the pasta. And I glanced around the condo that had once represented everything we failed to say. The night he locked me out, I believed the question was simple. Who owned the home? But over the year that followed, I learned there had been another question hidden beneath it. What makes a home belong to two people? Not a deed by itself. A shared home requires two people willing to remain visible to each other. To respect the difference between love and entitlement.
