I always thought money disagreements in a marriage would be about big things—buying a house, saving for retirement, or deciding on vacations. I never imagined my husband and I would be arguing over something as basic as Wi-Fi.
That Sunday afternoon, the sun poured through my car’s windshield as I drove home from the grocery store. Bags of food sat in the passenger seat, but all I could think about was how my life had turned into a never-ending financial transaction with Thomas.
When we first met, I admired his financial responsibility. He tracked his expenses, paid off credit cards on time, and had a savings plan. It seemed like a green flag, the kind of trait you’d want in a partner. But over time, that financial responsibility turned into something else—an obsession with splitting every single cost to the cent.
The first year of our marriage had been easy. We kept separate accounts but also had a shared one for bills, groceries, and household expenses. It seemed fair—until Thomas decided that “fair” meant tracking every single expense based on who used what.
By the time I parked in the driveway, I already felt exhausted, knowing another financial battle would be waiting for me. I carried the groceries inside and started putting them away, my mind drifting to all the absurd arguments we had.
“Andrea, you used the hot water for 40 minutes today. That’s going to increase the gas bill,” Thomas had said last month, standing in the doorway with his calculator in hand.
“It was fifteen minutes,” I argued. “I pulled a muscle in yoga. I needed it.”
“Still,” he said, tapping buttons on his calculator. “That’s extra. I’ll adjust your share of the bill.”
It didn’t stop at utilities. It was food. It was cleaning supplies. It was everything. If Thomas didn’t eat something, it was my responsibility. If I bought yogurt for breakfast? That was my cost alone. If I wanted almond milk for coffee? Also mine.
“I don’t drink almond milk,” he pointed out one day while reviewing the grocery receipt.
“You drink regular milk, and we split that,” I reminded him.
“Yes, because we both use it,” he said slowly, as if he were explaining something to a child.
Even meals I cooked for both of us weren’t spared. If I made pasta with a sauce he liked, he would eat it—and then send me a Venmo request for his “portion.”
I told myself he wasn’t being cruel, just overly analytical. That he saw money as numbers, not as something that should represent care and generosity in a marriage. But deep down, I knew better.
Then came Monday.
It was an important day—I had a virtual meeting with a potential client that could double my freelance graphic design business. I had worked for weeks, perfecting my presentation, rehearsing my pitch, and ensuring everything was flawless.
Five minutes before the call, my phone buzzed. A Venmo request from Thomas.
$20.
The description read: “Wi-Fi usage fee. You’re home, I’m at work.”
I stared at my phone, my mind blank. Twenty dollars for using the Wi-Fi in my own home? The same Wi-Fi we both paid for monthly? The same Wi-Fi he used every evening for YouTube and sports recaps?
Something inside me snapped. It wasn’t the amount—it was what it represented.
I powered through my meeting, landing the client. Under normal circumstances, I would have called Thomas right away, excited to share the good news. But I didn’t. Instead, I sat at my desk, staring at that Venmo request, feeling cold inside.
That evening, while Thomas was at the gym, I opened my laptop and got to work. I made a list of everything I’d done for our home and relationship over the past two years.
Every load of laundry. Every meal cooked. Every dish washed. Every grocery trip. Every bill paid. Every room cleaned. Every appointment scheduled.
Then, I assigned a fair hourly rate to each task based on local housekeeping, cooking, and administrative service prices. By the time I finished, the total came to $20,254.
I formatted it into a professional invoice, listing each service with an itemized breakdown. I added a payment due date—30 days from today. And just for fun, I included a late fee policy.
I printed it, walked to his desk, and placed the invoice right on top. Then, I packed a bag. Just essentials—clothes, my laptop, and toiletries. I had already called my sister earlier that week, asking if I could stay with her if needed. She said yes immediately.
Thomas got home, showered, and went to bed, never noticing my packed bag. I barely slept. In the morning, I sat in the kitchen with my coffee, waiting.
At exactly 7:00 a.m., Thomas woke up, went straight to his desk, and saw the invoice. There was a long silence. Then—
“What the hell is this?!”
He stormed into the kitchen, waving the paper, his face red.
“It’s an itemized bill for services rendered,” I said, sipping my coffee. “Since you’re so concerned about paying for exactly what you use, I thought I’d do the same.”
“This is insane!” he shouted. “Twenty thousand dollars for—what? Doing things around the house? That’s stuff you’re supposed to do anyway!”
“Am I?” I asked, tilting my head. “Because you seem to think cooking and cleaning are only my responsibility. You also seem to think I should pay extra for my coffee, my Wi-Fi, my laundry detergent, and even my bath time.”
“That’s different!” he sputtered. “Those are actual expenses!”
“And my labor isn’t an expense?” I shot back. “The mental load of managing this home isn’t worth anything?”
“You chose to do those things,” he argued. “I never asked you to clean or cook more.”
“And I never asked to be treated like a business associate instead of a wife,” I said quietly.
I stood, grabbed my packed bag, and headed toward the door. Thomas followed, his face draining of color.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving,” I said. “I’ll be at Lisa’s for a few days. I’ve already spoken to a lawyer about our options moving forward.”
“A lawyer?” he choked out. “You’re going to divorce me over some Venmo requests?”
I shook my head. “Not over the requests. Over what they represent. Somewhere along the way, you stopped seeing us as partners. We became two separate entities, splitting every cost like roommates instead of building a life together.”
“Andrea, we can talk about this,” he pleaded. “Maybe I went too far with the Wi-Fi thing—”
“That was just my wake-up call,” I said, looking him in the eye. “This was never about the money. It was about respect.”
I walked out, got into my car, and drove away. In my rearview mirror, I saw Thomas standing in the doorway, still clutching the invoice, looking utterly lost.
A part of me ached. This wasn’t how I imagined my marriage ending. But deep down, I knew—this was for the best. Because I deserved more than being treated like an expense. I deserved love, partnership, and respect.
And Thomas? He would have to learn the hard way what happens when you turn marriage into a business transaction.
