When He Chose Her Over Justice, I Chose Revenge Over Love - Chapter 27: Chapter 27
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My husband and I have been married for three years, strictly maintaining a fifty-fifty financial arrangement the entire time.
From major expenses like the mortgage down to tissues, from $5,000 to 5 cents—every single expense meticulously calculated.
I originally thought this post-marriage fifty-fifty system symbolized women's independence, but as my pregnant belly grew day by day, so did the knot in my heart...
"These shoes today count as your personal expense."
"Baby checkup costs—fifty-fifty."
"This birthing center is too expensive. Let's find a cheaper one."
I gradually realized that all my needs were categorized as my personal expenses, to be borne by me alone, while for expenses he was supposed to split, he wanted to control the budget.
Finally, I exploded: "Is this child mine alone? In your eyes, does even the birth of our child come with a price tag?"
"This child... wasn't planned anyway. The costs are indeed very high."
At that moment, the sound of him tapping his calculator became the countdown to our marriage's end.
"Calculation complete! This time you need to pay..."
"Fine. Just send me the bill, and I'll pay it."
The countdown was officially over.
I calmly texted my lawyer:
[I want a divorce. Everything he owes me in this marriage—I want him to pay it all back with interest, down to the last cent!]
My fridge has a battle line running straight down the middle.
The left side is mine—crammed with marked-down vegetables, yogurt about to expire, and energy bars from the office when we work late.
The right side is his—neatly arranged with imported steaks, craft beer, and organic-labeled fruits.
A clear plastic divider stands in the middle, stark as a prison wall.
Even the egg compartments on the door are divided with marker lines—six slots on the left labeled "Evelyn," six on the right labeled "Marcus."
Yep, Evelyn's me. Marcus is my husband. Legally, anyway.
We've been married three years. Going Dutch for three years too.
The whole fifty-fifty thing was my idea.
Fresh out of college, the whole "independent woman" vibe was super trendy, and I was making slightly more than him.
I thought, hey, it's a new era—financial independence is basically the foundation of self-respect.
"Marcus, how about we split all the household expenses fifty-fifty? Keep it clean, keep it fair—nobody takes advantage of anyone. Sound good?"
I had my arms wrapped around his neck, still glowing from our honeymoon phase, feeling like such a boss.
His eyes immediately lit up and he kissed me: "Evie, you're literally the most level-headed girl I've ever met! Let's do it!"
Back then, I thought he was just admiring my independence.
Looking back now, that spark in his eyes? That was probably a hunter watching prey walk straight into his trap.
Three years later, this fifty-fifty arrangement is welded into our bones like rebar.
Everything from mortgage payments, utilities, and HOA fees down to a single roll of toilet paper or a packet of salt—all tracked, all settled at month's end.
Marcus has this special budgeting app with a clean interface and powerful features.
Every single expense, tracked down to the penny.
He calls it "financial transparency in marriage."
The old "babe, I got you that cake you love" from our dating days became "Evie, the cake was $12.50, Venmo me $6.25."
Romance? What's that?
Just monthly notifications from the app, cold and punctual as clockwork.
"Ding! Your shared household expenses with Evelyn this month: $1,247.32. Your share: $623.66. Payment received: $623.66. Settled."
Every time, Marcus would turn his phone screen toward me with satisfaction, like showing off a perfect report card.
"Evie, we're square."
He'd always have this look of relief, like he'd just completed some major mission.
Meanwhile, my stomach would tie itself in knots.
My coworker Jenny always tells me: "Evie, you didn't marry a husband—you found yourself a roommate who's also a forensic accountant! And a pretty petty one at that!"
I used to get all defensive: "You don't get it, this is called equality and freedom!"
Now? Those rebuttals are getting harder to spit out.
Especially when I'm staring at that monthly statement, clearly showing I paid for half his body wash—and he never even asked if I liked that harsh ocean scent.
Freedom?
I feel like a robot controlled by some precision algorithm.
Until two months ago, when that constantly stretched wire of rationality finally snapped.
Because I got pregnant.
Those two clear lines on the pregnancy test hit me like red-hot branding irons, making my hands shake.
Marcus's reaction? That's what finally threw me into the deep freeze.
No surprised hug like I'd imagined. No excitement about becoming a father.
He stared at that test stick, his brow furrowed so tight.
After a full minute of silence, he looked up with this complicated expression.
"Evie, this baby... it's unplanned. The costs are gonna be pretty steep." He was rubbing his fingers together—his signature move when wrestling with major financial decisions.
My heart dropped:
"What do you mean?"
From major expenses like the mortgage down to tissues, from $5,000 to 5 cents—every single expense meticulously calculated.
I originally thought this post-marriage fifty-fifty system symbolized women's independence, but as my pregnant belly grew day by day, so did the knot in my heart...
"These shoes today count as your personal expense."
"Baby checkup costs—fifty-fifty."
"This birthing center is too expensive. Let's find a cheaper one."
I gradually realized that all my needs were categorized as my personal expenses, to be borne by me alone, while for expenses he was supposed to split, he wanted to control the budget.
Finally, I exploded: "Is this child mine alone? In your eyes, does even the birth of our child come with a price tag?"
"This child... wasn't planned anyway. The costs are indeed very high."
At that moment, the sound of him tapping his calculator became the countdown to our marriage's end.
"Calculation complete! This time you need to pay..."
"Fine. Just send me the bill, and I'll pay it."
The countdown was officially over.
I calmly texted my lawyer:
[I want a divorce. Everything he owes me in this marriage—I want him to pay it all back with interest, down to the last cent!]
My fridge has a battle line running straight down the middle.
The left side is mine—crammed with marked-down vegetables, yogurt about to expire, and energy bars from the office when we work late.
The right side is his—neatly arranged with imported steaks, craft beer, and organic-labeled fruits.
A clear plastic divider stands in the middle, stark as a prison wall.
Even the egg compartments on the door are divided with marker lines—six slots on the left labeled "Evelyn," six on the right labeled "Marcus."
Yep, Evelyn's me. Marcus is my husband. Legally, anyway.
We've been married three years. Going Dutch for three years too.
The whole fifty-fifty thing was my idea.
Fresh out of college, the whole "independent woman" vibe was super trendy, and I was making slightly more than him.
I thought, hey, it's a new era—financial independence is basically the foundation of self-respect.
"Marcus, how about we split all the household expenses fifty-fifty? Keep it clean, keep it fair—nobody takes advantage of anyone. Sound good?"
I had my arms wrapped around his neck, still glowing from our honeymoon phase, feeling like such a boss.
His eyes immediately lit up and he kissed me: "Evie, you're literally the most level-headed girl I've ever met! Let's do it!"
Back then, I thought he was just admiring my independence.
Looking back now, that spark in his eyes? That was probably a hunter watching prey walk straight into his trap.
Three years later, this fifty-fifty arrangement is welded into our bones like rebar.
Everything from mortgage payments, utilities, and HOA fees down to a single roll of toilet paper or a packet of salt—all tracked, all settled at month's end.
Marcus has this special budgeting app with a clean interface and powerful features.
Every single expense, tracked down to the penny.
He calls it "financial transparency in marriage."
The old "babe, I got you that cake you love" from our dating days became "Evie, the cake was $12.50, Venmo me $6.25."
Romance? What's that?
Just monthly notifications from the app, cold and punctual as clockwork.
"Ding! Your shared household expenses with Evelyn this month: $1,247.32. Your share: $623.66. Payment received: $623.66. Settled."
Every time, Marcus would turn his phone screen toward me with satisfaction, like showing off a perfect report card.
"Evie, we're square."
He'd always have this look of relief, like he'd just completed some major mission.
Meanwhile, my stomach would tie itself in knots.
My coworker Jenny always tells me: "Evie, you didn't marry a husband—you found yourself a roommate who's also a forensic accountant! And a pretty petty one at that!"
I used to get all defensive: "You don't get it, this is called equality and freedom!"
Now? Those rebuttals are getting harder to spit out.
Especially when I'm staring at that monthly statement, clearly showing I paid for half his body wash—and he never even asked if I liked that harsh ocean scent.
Freedom?
I feel like a robot controlled by some precision algorithm.
Until two months ago, when that constantly stretched wire of rationality finally snapped.
Because I got pregnant.
Those two clear lines on the pregnancy test hit me like red-hot branding irons, making my hands shake.
Marcus's reaction? That's what finally threw me into the deep freeze.
No surprised hug like I'd imagined. No excitement about becoming a father.
He stared at that test stick, his brow furrowed so tight.
After a full minute of silence, he looked up with this complicated expression.
"Evie, this baby... it's unplanned. The costs are gonna be pretty steep." He was rubbing his fingers together—his signature move when wrestling with major financial decisions.
My heart dropped:
"What do you mean?"
End of When He Chose Her Over Justice, I Chose Revenge Over Love Chapter 27. Continue reading Chapter 28 or return to When He Chose Her Over Justice, I Chose Revenge Over Love book page.