"And he needs that support from you? At midnight?"
She would sigh—that heavy, theatrical sigh she used whenever I questioned her. "He's sensitive, Mark. He's not like you. He doesn't repress things. We have a connection. It's purely intellectual and emotional. Why do you always have to sexualize everything?"
That was her favorite defense: the therapy weaponization. Maya consumed hours of TikTok therapy content and learned just enough terminology to twist every situation into a failing on my part. If I asked for basic respect, I was "controlling." If I expressed discomfort with another man taking her to lunch three times a week, I was "insecure" and "projecting my toxic masculinity onto her safe space."
I tried to be the bigger man. I told myself I was the one she came home to. I was the one paying the mortgage. I was the one planning Operation 30. Gavin was just a phase, a needy coworker she felt sorry for.
I was wrong. He wasn't a phase. He was a replacement waiting in the wings.
The dynamic shifted three days before her birthday. I had just picked up her gift—a vintage necklace she'd circled in a catalog six months ago—when I came home to find her on the balcony. She was on the phone. Her voice dropped to that hush-hush whisper people use when they're sharing secrets. When the sliding door clicked shut behind me, she jumped. She hung up immediately.
"Who was that?" I asked, putting the gift bag in the closet.
"Just Gavin," she said. She looked flushed. "He's having a crisis."
"He seems to have a crisis every time I'm not in the room," I said, my patience fraying.
"You wouldn't understand," she snapped, walking past me to the kitchen. "You're so emotionally rigid. Gavin feels things deeply. He just needs to know someone is in his corner."
I let it go. I didn't want to ruin the birthday week with a fight. I told myself to just get through the weekend, give her the perfect experience, and maybe then, once she felt celebrated and loved, we could have a real conversation about boundaries. I was an idiot.