After nine years together, my boyfriend snapped, “You’re not my wife—so stop expecting me to act like your husband.” The very next day, he stood frozen in the doorway, unable to believe what he saw.

“Most of it.”

Chelsea gave me a tired look. “Ari.”

Chelsea looked around the apartment.

I hated when she said my name like that.

“What?” I asked.

She pointed toward the guitar stand. “You moved your chair because he needed space. You picked up extra shifts because he needed money. When does he give something back?”

I looked at the rug instead of her.

“We’re continue reading …