After nine years of supporting my boyfriend’s music, I thought one paid gig meant we were finally moving forward. I planned a dinner to celebrate him, even while I was exhausted from carrying us. Then one careless sentence made me look at my future differently.
The night Scott told me I wasn’t his wife, I finally believed him.
Not because he was right to say it.
But because after nine years of rent, groceries, bills, late-night pep talks, and pretending his dreams were ours, I realized I’d been auditioning for a role he was never planning to give me.
The next evening, he came home smiling.
I finally believed him.
He still expected dinner. He expected praise.
And he expected me.
Instead, he froze in the doorway, staring at the apartment I’d stopped pretending was ours.
***
I met Scott when I was 23, in the back corner of a crowded bar. He was onstage with a borrowed guitar, singing like thousands of people were watching instead of 27 tired strangers.
That’s how we started.
He expected praise.
Scott was talented. He could make a plain room feel softer when he played. But talent didn’t pay rent.
So, slowly, I did.
At first, we split things as best we could. Then he had a slow month. Then a gig fell through. Then he needed new strings, studio time, and a phone that stayed on for venues.
“It’s temporary, Ari,” he always said.
He called me Ari when he wanted me gentle.
“It’s temporary, Ari.”
I worked in client support for a software company, which meant long hours, polite emails, and constant patience.
At home, I stayed calm too.
Scott forgot the electric bill, so I paid it.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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