When my boyfriend, Matt, suggested moving in together, I thought it was the start of something beautiful.
We had been together for nearly two years, and this next step felt natural. Most of my belongings had already migrated to his place—my favorite mug, half my wardrobe, even my true crime books, which he always teased me about but still made room for.
But something nagged at me.
“Matt, I need to be honest,” I said. “My job at the shelter doesn’t pay much. I love it, but nonprofit work isn’t lucrative.”
Matt, with his well-paying remote tech job, brushed it off. “Don’t worry. One day, you’ll be the mother of my kids. It’s my job to provide.” His confidence made my heart flutter.
We found a charming two-bedroom, and Matt covered the lease. Move-in day felt like a dream—until I came home and found all my boxes stuffed into a tiny closet.
“My place, my rules,” Matt said with a smug grin.
That’s when I realized—this wasn’t love. It was control.
