When Matt and I moved in together, I thought it was love. He insisted on paying most expenses, called me his future, and said he wanted to “provide.” But soon, I realized providing came with control.
He rearranged everything I touched—books hidden away, rugs returned, meals re-seasoned. My home became his project. Even my side of the closet wasn’t safe; he folded my bras, labeled my storage boxes, and called it “helping.” When I asked for space, he gaslit me. My sister’s words cut deep: “He’s not helping you, he’s erasing you.”
The breaking point came when I lost hours at work. Instead of comfort, Matt said, “Now you can organize the apartment properly.” I threw myself into a new nonprofit program and found myself again—something he couldn’t stand.
In therapy, he spoke of miscommunication. I said one truth: “You don’t want a partner. You want a project.” He fired back, “That’s rich, coming from someone who doesn’t pay rent.” That was it. I left.
Months later, my program launched, my new place felt like mine, and I learned the final twist: Matt had lost his job right after we moved in. All that “provider” talk? A cover for severance checks and credit cards. He wasn’t supporting me—he was propping up his ego.
That night, I felt free. Love isn’t someone rearranging your life until it disappears. Love is someone who sees how you fold your towels and says, “That’s beautiful. Don’t change a thing.”
If you’ve ever felt yourself shrinking in someone else’s “home,” trust your gut. Love should feel like freedom, not correction.
