I pulled my husband out of poverty, my father gave him a job. Five years later, he said that I should quit because…

When I met Michael, he had two hundred euros in his pocket and an expired credit card. He had just lost his job—the third one that year—and was renting a room in a dormitory on the outskirts of town. My friends shook their heads, my mom sighed, and my dad frowned.

But I fell in love. With his intelligent eyes, the way he talked about the future, his hands that trembled when he first touched my face.

We got married six months later. It was modest, without a banquet. I bought my wedding dress myself, with my salary. The first year we lived with my parents—saving for a rented apartment. I worked as a manager in a construction company, the money was decent. Michael did odd jobs, trying to find himself. I never pressured him. I believed that everything would work out.

My parents helped as much as they could. Mom prepared meals for us, dad gave us money for the apartment deposit. And then, after almost a year of painful job searching for Michael, my father called an old friend. Within a week, my husband was hired as a regional manager in a reputable logistics company.

I remember how he came back after his first day at work. He was glowing. He hugged me, lifted me up, and spun me around the kitchen.

“Thank you,” he whispered into my hair. “Thank you for not giving up on me. I’ll repay it all. I promise.”

I believed him.

Five years passed.

Michael made a career. Quickly, successfully, impressively. First as a manager, then a department head, then deputy director. We moved into our own two-bedroom apartment, then a three-bedroom one. I continued to work, I enjoyed it, and my salary was still higher than his.

But something started to change.

At first, it was little things. He started staying late at work, explaining that he needed to live up to his position. He began to dress more expensively, keeping up with fashion. Then came comments about how he had to “carry the family,” that “responsibility was pressing down.”

I didn’t pay much attention. I thought it was stress.

And then, on an ordinary evening, he came home, sat across from me on the couch, and said:

“We need to talk. I think it’s time for you to quit.”

I laughed. I thought he was joking.

But Michael wasn’t smiling.

He explained calmly, reasonably, as if giving a presentation. That his position required a certain status. That the wife of a deputy director should take care of the home, create coziness, be a support. That I spent too much time at work, and the house was neglected. That a real woman is the keeper of the hearth.

I was silent. I couldn’t utter a single word.

“Besides,” he continued, “we can afford it. I earn enough.”

Enough. He earns enough.

The next day he set up a separate account for household expenses. He said he’d transfer money for groceries and household needs to me. For order, so that I wouldn’t waste.

I tried to object. I reminded him of how we lived the first year. How I paid for his certification courses. How my parents helped us get on our feet. How it was my father who got him that very job that made him who he became.

Michael grimaced.

“That was a long time ago,” he said. “Now it’s different. I pulled myself up. By my own efforts.”

By himself, indeed…

I looked at him and didn’t recognize him. Sitting in front of me was a man in an expensive shirt, with a confident posture, with a cold look. Where was the Michael who cried on my shoulder after another job interview rejection? Who swore he’d never forget how I believed in him?

Or did he just rewrite the story in his mind? Removed the inconvenient chapters, leaving only those where he’s the hero? Where he made it on his own, achieved everything, and I was just there, like an attractive accessory?

Last week, we argued over nothing. I bought expensive cheese without asking him. He threw a fit—claiming I didn’t know how to manage money, that I spent it on nonsense.

I reminded him that I have my own salary. That I have the right to buy what I want.

He looked at me as if I’d said something indecent.

“My wife shouldn’t work,” he said quietly. “It looks like I can’t support her.”

Last night I stood on the balcony, smoking my first cigarette in five years, thinking: when did this happen? At what moment did the person I pulled from the bottom decide that bottom never existed? That he was always strong, successful, the leader?

And can you get back the person you loved? Or has he disappeared forever, dissolved into three-piece suits and haughty phrases about “real women?”

This morning Michael left on a business trip. He kissed me goodbye, as usual. Almost like before.

Almost.

And I sit in the kitchen, looking at my wedding ring, not knowing the answer.

What would you do in my place? Is it worth fighting for someone who’s forgotten who he was without you? Can you forgive someone who rewrote your shared history, omitting your role? Or do ambitions and money truly change people so much that there’s no way back? And if the person you loved no longer exists—is there any point in holding on to who he’s become?

Tell me. Because I still can’t decide.

****

When I first met my future husband, he had serious problems with work and money, but that didn’t stop me and we got married. In the beginning, my parents helped us a lot, and I myself earned quite well; later my father got my husband a decent position at his friend’s company. And five years later, during dinner, he suddenly said that I had to quit my job. The reason was so shocking that I didn’t believe my ears at first. And after one sentence, it became clear to me why he had married me in the first place…
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