We didn’t have a “power couple” beginning. We had a studio apartment with a radiator that clanked and a diet consisting mostly of pasta and hope.
I believed in him when no one else did. I supported him when he was an intern, waking up at 5:00 AM to iron his shirts and pack his lunch. I managed our finances with the precision of a surgeon, finding ways to stretch a dollar until it screamed.
I clipped coupons so he could buy nice suits.
I sacrificed my own wardrobe, wearing the same three dresses for years, so he could walk into meetings looking like he owned the place. I played the part of the charming, supportive wife perfectly. I hosted his boss for dinners, cooking gourmet meals in a tiny kitchen, scrubbing the floors until my knees bruised to make sure we looked “presentable”.
We climbed the mountain together. Or so I thought.
The day the news came, I was ready to celebrate. He had done it. The top of the ladder.
When he finally became CEO, he filed for divorce.
I stared at him across the marble island of the kitchen we had finally been able to afford. “Why?” I asked, shattered. “We made it. We won.”
He adjusted his silk tie—one that I hadn’t bought with a coupon. He looked at me with a detached, critical eye, assessing me like a depreciating asset.
“‘I need a wife who fits my new tax bracket,’” he said cold-heartedly.
I was too practical. Too grounded. I was a reminder of the struggle, and he wanted to live in the shine. I was the sturdy foundation he had built his career on, and now that the skyscraper was finished, he wanted to cover me up with marble.
He married a socialite—a woman who knew how to spend money, not save it. She looked good on a yacht. She looked good at the galas.
And I was left with the coupon binder.
I sat in my smaller apartment, flipping through the plastic sleeves of discounts for groceries I would now be eating alone. I realized I had starved myself to feed his ambition, only to find out that once he was full, he had no use for the spoon that fed him.
