I
grew up watching sitcoms where the mother had breakfast on the table at a
certain hour, everything orderly and waiting for her smartass kids to drift
down and give her shit while they ate it. Me, I stuck a piece of bread in the
toaster and whipped out the peanut butter.
“Hey,”
Adam said, “how much do you have for the credit-card bill?”
Oh
God. My stomach knotted the way it
always did when he asked me that question, because I never had enough. I
mumbled something about money coming in the following week, which was total
bullshit because I hadn’t even invoiced yet. And I hadn’t yet invoiced because
I hadn’t been doing any work.
In
other words, I was tapped.
He
touched my arm. “Just level with me. How much do you have?”
Like
any good feminist, I broke into tears.
When
we first got together, I broke my ass to make sure that I covered half of
whatever we bought, whether that was dinner or plane tickets. Sometimes that
meant stupid shit like delaying rent or taking an advance from my credit card,
just to hide the fact that my freelancing simply wasn’t cutting it.
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