I lived with him for ten years as his wife. But when I finally asked him to do it one day, he laughed, “It’s just a piece of paper.” I didn’t object. And that morning, he saw something in the kitchen that made him really afraid to lose me.
My name is Laura. I’m thirty-eight.
I met Michael ten years ago at a mutual friend’s birthday party.
He was calm, attentive and reliable. He always remembered what kind of coffee I liked, he called when he was late, and when I was with him, I felt like I finally found a man I could put on with family.
A year later, we moved in together.
A few years later we bought a house in a quiet neighborhood.
Because of Michael’s bad credit history, the mortgage was registered solely in my name. I also paid most of my own contribution.
But I never said to him, “This is my home.”
For me, it was our home.
We set up a joint account, paid the bills together, did a renovation, adopted a dog from a shelter and gradually created the life I dreamed of.
Everyone thought of us as a husband and wife.
Michael even sometimes portrayed me as his wife.
Except I didn’t have a ring on my hand.
At first, I didn’t pay much attention to it.
Then there were excuses.
“Let’s get a job first.”
“Now not the time, too much spending.”
“Let’s finish the renovation first.”
“We have to save some more.”
I believed everyone’s word.
Because we were together.
And I was sure the postage stamp wouldn’t change anything.
But on our 10th anniversary wedding I realized I didn’t want to wait any longer.
I didn’t want a lavish wedding.
I didn’t want an expensive ring.
I just needed one thing – to hear that after ten years he really chose me.
I booked a table in a good restaurant.
At dinner, gathering courage, I said calmly:
“Michael, maybe we should finally get married? Even if it’s just a little ceremony for our loved ones.’
