Ethan explained how the arrangement had begun.
“When we first moved in, Vanessa asked me to contribute something when she made special dinners. I agreed.”
“Which was fair,” Vanessa interrupted.
“I thought so. But then she started charging for everything. Breakfast. Dinner. Leftovers.”
“Because you kept expecting me to cook!”
“I offered to cook for myself.”
Vanessa pressed her lips together. Margaret turned back to him.
“Ethan, who buys the ingredients?”
“I do.”
“All the groceries?”
“Yes.”
“Who pays the rent?”
“I do.”
Vanessa sighed.
“He earns more than me.”
“What about electricity and the other bills?” I asked.
“Me,” Ethan said. “All of them.”
Payments for rent, groceries, and utilities filled the screen. Each entry reinforced how much of their household spending rested on his shoulders, even before the separate meal charges. Margaret reviewed them before questioning her daughter.
“Vanessa, are you contributing anything financially?”
“I’m looking for work, Mom.”
“I understand. I’m asking what the arrangement is.”
Vanessa crossed her arms.
“I cook.”
“And who cleans?” Margaret asked.
“Mostly Ethan,” Vanessa admitted reluctantly.
“Laundry?”
“Ethan.”
“Dishes?”
Ethan lifted his hand.
“I do those after she cooks.”
Vanessa struck the tabletop.
“So now cooking doesn’t count as work?”
“Of course it counts,” Margaret said. “But I thought you two were sharing a home.”
Vanessa turned angrily toward her boyfriend.
“You’ve made me look terrible.”
Ethan glanced at the sheet.
“I didn’t write those charges.”
Ethan paid for their home, supplied their food, cleaned, and worked.
“Ethan,” I asked, “why didn’t you just say no?”
“Because he doesn’t want to lose me.”
My son’s face lost its color, but he answered firmly.
“I did say no.”
“Ethan.”
“I said no three weeks ago.”
He described asking her to discontinue the charges. He had tried to discuss the issue directly rather than involving either family at the first sign of trouble. She refused. He proposed a different division of responsibilities, which she rejected as well. When he suggested that living separately might be best, she leaned toward him with a warning.
“Careful what you say next.”
Margaret looked sharply at Vanessa.
“What does that mean?”
“That’s what she says whenever I mention leaving.”
“Don’t start.”
Ethan continued despite her objection.
“When I said I couldn’t keep living like this, she told me she’d tell our friends I made her do all the housework.”
Margaret’s brow furrowed.
“Vanessa?”
“She was angry,” Ethan said. “But she didn’t stop there.”
He turned toward me.
“She said she’d tell people at my office I expected her to cook and clean while I sat around doing nothing.”
Vanessa dismissed his concern.
“I said people deserved to know how hard I work.”
“Then why did you tell Ben I never help you?”
“Ben asked me why I was treating Vanessa like a maid,” Ethan said.
That was when I understood Vanessa had already begun spreading the accusations she’d threatened to make.
“What did you tell Ben?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Why not?”
Ethan rubbed his tired eyes.
“Because I felt ridiculous. I thought I’d sound like a man complaining because his girlfriend wanted help with dinner.”
He glanced toward the bare refrigerator.
“So I kept paying.”
Vanessa muttered, “Nobody made you.”
“Every time I said I wanted to leave, you reminded me what you’d tell everyone.”
“Couples argue!”
“I know.”
His voice faltered.
“But I was afraid to break up with you.”
Margaret covered her mouth. Shame wasn’t the only thing keeping him quiet; he feared that people would doubt him.
“Is that why there’s no food?” I asked.
He nodded.
“After rent and bills, I was short this week. I planned to shop on payday.”
“But you can cook.”
“I do sometimes. But whenever I use the groceries, Vanessa says I’m taking food she planned to prepare.”
