When Matt offered to pay our rent, it felt like love—but turned out to be control. At first, living together seemed like a dream. He insisted on covering all expenses, saying, “Let me take care of us.” I was touched… until we moved in.
After I stepped out briefly on move-in day, I came back to find all my belongings shoved into a closet. His things filled the apartment. When I asked, he casually said, “I pay, so I set the rules.” Then he told me to cook dinner—because I “owed” him.That’s when I realized: this wasn’t love. It was ownership.I didn’t fight. I called his father instead. Mr. Reynolds came over, slammed a dollar on the counter, and told Matt to dance—since he’d just paid. Then he tore into his son for treating me like property. I packed my things and left that night.Now, I live alone in a small apartment. It’s mine. I cook when I want. I struggle sometimes—but I’m free.Lesson learned: Real love doesn’t come with conditions or fine print. I’d rather have my independence than be someone’s kept woman.
