My husband gestured toward me with his wine glass in front of our closest friends and declared, “Her work pays for coffee, mine pays for life.”
That single sentence was the culmination of fifteen years of a thousand tiny cuts. He called my career a ‘cute little side hustle’ and my income ‘pocket money’ for trivial things.
My ‘pocket money’ paid for our last three vacations. My ‘side hustle’ covered the down payment on this very house.
But that night, with that smirk on his face, he said the quiet part out loud.
Something inside me finally snapped.
He was about to learn a very public lesson in accounting, because my business came with receipts, and I was about to start sharing every single one of them.
The Slow Burn: A Hobby of Convenience
The smell of garlic and simmering tomatoes filled the kitchen, a familiar comfort that did little to soothe the knot in my stomach. Mark stood at the island, scrolling through his phone, one thumb flicking rhythmically against the screen. He hadn’t looked up in ten minutes.
“Smells good,” he said, his voice absent. It was the same tone he used when acknowledging a passing car.
“Thanks. It’s that new recipe from the Times.” I stirred the sauce, the wooden spoon scraping lightly against the bottom of the pot. “I’m thinking of trying the braised short ribs this weekend. For when Dave and Jess come over.”
Mark clicked his tongue against his teeth, a sound that always preceded a verdict. “Ambitious. You sure you’ll have time? Don’t you have one of your little art projects due?”
I stopped stirring. The phrase hung in the air, thick and greasy as bacon smoke. *Little art projects*. That’s what he called my career. The freelance graphic design business I had built from nothing over fifteen years, the one that kept our savings account plump and our credit cards clear.
“It’s a brand identity suite for a national startup, Mark. It’s not a macaroni necklace.” My voice was tight, but I kept it level. Years of practice.
He finally looked up, a placid smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right, right. Just saying, don’t overdo it. The ribs can be tricky.” He slid his phone into his pocket and grabbed a beer from the fridge. The pop of the cap was a punctuation mark I’d come to despise. It meant the conversation was over. He had made his point, cloaked it in concern, and moved on.
I watched him walk into the living room, the knot in my stomach twisting into a cold, hard stone. This Saturday, at dinner with our closest friends, I knew he’d do it again. He’d find a way to frame my work as a quaint pastime, a little something I did to keep myself busy between laundry cycles. And I would sit there and smile, because that’s what I always did.
The Weight of a Monitor
My office—or the “craft corner” as Mark generously called it—was a converted sunroom at the back of the house. It was my sanctuary and my battleground. Right now, it was a mess of color swatches, half-empty coffee mugs, and the low hum of a computer that was struggling to keep up.
I was wrestling with a vector file for a boutique dog biscuit company, “The Salty Paw.” The client was picky, wanting the logo to feel both “artisanal” and “scalable.” It was a classic design challenge, the kind I loved sinking my teeth into. But my monitor kept flickering, a persistent color glitch turning their signature “ocean blue” into a sickly teal.
“Everything okay in here?” Mark leaned against the doorframe, holding his gym bag.
“Just this monitor. It’s on its last legs. I can’t get accurate color profiles.” I squinted at the screen, toggling a layer off and on. “I’m going to have to order a new one. It’s a business expense, anyway.”
“Another one?” He set his bag down with a thud. “Didn’t you just get this one a few years ago?”
“Three years is a lifetime in tech, Mark. This is the main tool of my trade. It’s like you trying to do accounting on an abacus.”
He laughed, a short, sharp bark that set my teeth on edge. “It’s not quite the same, is it? My work computer is a necessity. This is… an upgrade for the hobby. Just make sure it’s not one of those thousand-dollar ones. It’s just for making dog logos, right?”
He winked, as if we were sharing a private joke. My fingers tightened on my mouse until my knuckles ached. He saw a price tag. I saw an investment in the business that had paid for our last three vacations, my car, and the down payment on this very house. He saw me playing with colors; I saw myself building an asset, invoice by painstaking invoice. I said nothing, just turned back to the glitching screen, the sickly teal of the logo mocking me.
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