Chapter 2

Day one of our new fifty-fifty life began with David and his precious Excel spreadsheet.

I was in the kitchen making myself some porridge when he sat down at the dining table with his iPad, his finger making an irritating tap-tap-tapping sound on the screen.

"Emily, come here a minute," he called out, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.

I poured my porridge into a bowl, set it on the table, and glanced at his screen.

A meticulously crafted spreadsheet glowed back at me, titled "Warren Household Shared Expense Ledger." It had color-coded columns for "Fixed Monthly Costs," "Variable Spending," "Projected Totals," and so on.

"I stayed up half the night making this. Take a look," he said, pushing the iPad toward me as if presenting a work of art. "Property tax is about a hundred bucks a month. Utilities last month were $140.

"The internet is $400 a year, which averages out to $33 a month. That brings fixed expenses to $306. Split down the middle, that's $153. You need to transfer that to me on the first of every month, sharp."

He paused, tapping another column. "For groceries and food, that's a variable. I propose we each contribute five hundred dollars a month to a joint kitty. We'll settle up at the end of the month if there's any left over or if we go over."

He looked at me, beaming, practically begging for applause. "So? What do you think? Perfectly fair, right?" he said.

I looked at that ridiculous spreadsheet, and a laugh bubbled up inside me.

He had accounted for every last penny, but he had conveniently forgotten to factor in one thing: my labor.

In his eyes, grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, and cleaning were simply my duties, naturally free of charge.

"Fine," I nodded, offering no objection.

My compliance caught him off guard. The speech he had prepared about fairness and equality died in his throat. He eyed me suspiciously, scanning my face for any sign of reluctance.

But I gave him none. I even offered a sweet smile, "You've really thought this through. But a joint account is such a hassle with all the transfers.

"Why don't we just take turns? One week I buy the groceries. The next week, you do. Simpler for everyone."

"Take turns?" David frowned, the gears turning in his head.

"Exactly. This week it's my turn. Next week, it's yours. Whatever you buy, it's on your dime. That way we won't be bickering over the price of organic kale," I said, taking a slow sip of my porridge.

"My week starts today, so I'll head out now."

With that, I set down my bowl, grabbed my reusable tote from the hook by the door, and started to leave.

David stared, dumbfounded. "Hey, wait a minute! What about my breakfast?"

I turned back, widening my eyes in feigned innocence. "Our agreement doesn't say I have to cook for you for free. This porridge is my portion. If you want some, you can make it yourself. Or you can buy it from me."

I held up one finger. "Friend-and-family rate. We'll call it two dollars. Cash?"

His face turned livid.

"Emily!" He yelled and shot to his feet, slamming his hand on the table. "You... What is this? You're charging me for a bowl of porridge? We're husband and wife!"

"From the moment you proposed we go fifty-fifty, we became financial partners first, spouses second," I replied calmly. "This was your choice, David.

"Weren't you the one saying a woman needs to be independent? Well, I'm just starting to calculate the value of my work."

Without another word, I turned and walked out the door.

I could hear his enraged sputtering behind me, but I tuned it out completely.

The market was alive with color and noise, vendors calling out deals. I breathed it in, feeling lighter than I had in decades.

For thirty years, my entire existence had revolved around this house, around David and Michael. I bought groceries based on David's tastes. I timed my cooking to his arrival from work. My world was the four corners of a kitchen.

But now, this was amazing.

The only person I had to please was myself.

I bought a beautiful sea bass, a pound of fresh shrimp, and a bunch of fragrant fennel, something David always complained smelled weird.

When I got home, bag brimming with things I actually wanted, David was sulking on the couch. My half-eaten porridge still sat on the table. He had skipped breakfast out of spite.

He huffed and turned away when I walked in.

I ignored him, went straight to the kitchen, and started prepping lunch.

I steamed the bass, boiled the shrimp, and made fennel-scrambled eggs. Three beautiful dishes plus soup were my own private feast.

I sat down alone at the big dining table and ate slowly, savoring every bite.

David pretended to watch TV in the living room, but his eyes kept drifting over. The savory aroma of the fish, the sweetness of the shrimp, and the unique fragrance of the fennel wafted over, and I could practically hear his stomach growling.

Having skipped breakfast, he must have been starving.

Finally he caved, appearing in the doorway with a scowl. "You really only cooked for yourself?"

I looked up, a piece of flaky fish still in my mouth. "Of course," I said, chewing slowly. "We're fifty-fifty now. We each handle our own meals.

"The kitchen is available for you to use. We can even split the time. I get it in the mornings, and you get it in the afternoons. Perfectly fair."

"You!" He was so angry he was speechless.

His version of "going Dutch" was him continuing to enjoy all the services of a wife, just without having to pay for my upkeep.

He never, ever imagined I would take the agreement this literally.

"The groceries in the fridge..." he grumbled and gestured, grasping at straws.

"Oh, those are mine. My personal property, since I paid for them," I reminded him sweetly. "If you'd like some, you can purchase them from me at market price."

His face flushed, then paled. With a furious stomp of his foot, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

I figured he was probably off to eat at a restaurant.

I finished my delicious lunch at a leisurely pace, washed my plate and utensils, and placed them neatly in my half of the cabinet.