I didn’t usually keep count of how many times I sighed in a day. But that night? I was already on sigh number five — and it wasn’t even 6 p.m.

The kitchen smelled like dry-erase marker and overcooked soup. I’d just finished grading 28 notebooks, all of them bleeding with red-ink spelling corrections, when a notification blinked to life on the table.

Overdue utility bill.

And from the living room, Steve’s voice called out with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning:

“Babe! The new Tesla just dropped! Zero to sixty in 3.1 seconds! It’s not even a car — it’s a missile!”
I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared at the notification and asked flatly, “Will we even have power to boil water tomorrow? They’re threatening shutoff again.”

Steve didn’t turn. Didn’t blink.

“Just pay it. You always handle that stuff anyway.”
That’s how it always went. I paid the bills. I bought the groceries. I paid for the washer. The TV. The very Wi-Fi Steve used to watch his little car fantasies.

I was on my way to change into my softest pajamas when something slipped from the pocket of his coat.

A receipt.

An actual paper receipt — rare these days, right?

Curious, I bent down and picked it up.

$10,234. Luxury Seaside Resort. 2 guests. 14 nights.

I stood frozen, while my frugal-to-the-point-of-hostile husband munched popcorn and muttered about torque ratios.

“Steve?” I walked in slowly, receipt in hand.

He barely looked up. “Huh?”