“My parents and my sister are moving in today—and you’re not going to argue about it.”
That’s what my husband told me on our second night in the mansion I had paid for completely on my own.
No “What do you think?”
No “Can we talk about it?”
Not even a hint of discussion.
He said it casually, beer in hand, barefoot in the marble kitchen—as if he had always belonged there. As if the house in the hills of Interlomas had been passed down through his family instead of built from ten years of my relentless work growing a tech company from nothing.
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