The folder would arrive beside me.
Everyone would continue talking.
Eventually I would place my credit card inside.
Dinner would continue as though nothing unusual had happened.
Because to them, nothing unusual had happened.
Natalie was simply doing what Natalie always did.
I had a stable career as a financial analyst, which meant I knew exactly how much these dinners were costing.
Three hundred dollars one month.
Five hundred the next.
Sometimes more.
Thousands every year.
Over ten years, it was enough money for a car.
Enough for part of a house deposit.
Enough, as I would eventually discover, to nearly destroy the anniversary trip I had been quietly planning.
Having a good career does not mean having unlimited money.
I knew perfectly well that money that could have been building our future was disappearing into steaks, cocktails, desserts, and appetizers ordered by people who never expected to pay for them.
But I hated confrontation.
Public conflict made my throat tighten.
So every time, I smiled.
I paid.
And I told myself that next time would be different.
Next time I would finally say something.
But “next time” kept moving further away.
Eventually Serena even gave me a nickname.
“Our walking credit card.”
She used it at restaurants.
At barbecues.
During holidays.
Once she said it directly in front of a waiter.
Everyone laughed.
The waiter laughed politely because what else was he supposed to do?
I laughed too.
But every time she said it, something inside me became a little smaller.
Chris never laughed as loudly as everyone else.
Somehow that made it worse.
He would give me an uncomfortable smile.
Then, in the car afterward, he always said the same thing.
“It’s only dinner, Nat. It’s easier this way. You know what my family is like.”
For years, I believed he meant easier for us.
Easier for our marriage.
