For as long as I can remember, it’s been a bit of a running joke in my circle—if Linda wanted something, she had to do it herself.
If Linda needed something, she had to pay for it herself.
And if she dared to ask for help, well… she usually got a sigh, a shrug, or a vague promise followed by the sound of a tennis ball bouncing in the distance.

My friends and family have laughed about this for decades. “Linda doesn’t have a husband—she has a spectator.”
And honestly, they weren’t wrong. For 32 years, I was the entire home improvement department, bank, emotional support hotline, and everything in between.
Want something painted? Linda did it.
Need a new appliance? Linda paid for it.
Want a romantic dinner? Linda cooked it, paid for it, and probably drove herself there too.

It became a lifestyle. One I never signed up for, but one I perfected.
He fished, played tennis, and watched me like I was an inspirational documentary on self-sufficiency.
I’d be up a ladder covered in paint while he’d stroll past and say something encouraging like, “Be careful, love.”

But here’s where the story really takes a turn…
Eventually, as the years piled up like receipts I never got reimbursed for, I decided enough was enough.
I stopped being the banker. I stopped being the builder, the beautician, the background support.
And just like that, things started unraveling—at least for him.

Suddenly, I was no longer sending over money.
And poof! Romance returned!
How? Oh, in the most ironic way: he sent me a card.

Yes, a written card.
A heartfelt note about how he realized how badly he had behaved over the past 32 years.
Thirty-two years of emotional distance, laziness, entitlement… and now, a lovely piece of folded cardstock with a scrawled apology.

Not flowers. Not a gesture. Not change. Just ink on paper.
But let’s not be ungrateful—it was, after all, the first time he’d lifted a pen in years without signing for a fishing license.

Now here comes the plot twist: when I didn’t transfer another €10,000 into the joint account shortly after, he declared that it was all over.
Yes, apparently love—true, heartfelt, 32-year-deep love—had an expiry date the moment the funds dried up.

Cue my family and friends rolling on the floor laughing.
Because if that’s not the most telling love story of our generation, I don’t know what is.

No more free labour.
No more financing his lifestyle.
No more painting the skirting boards while being emotionally gaslit about my “lack of gratitude.”

He wanted me so badly, he sent a card.
And when I didn’t follow up his Hallmark moment with a hefty bank transfer, he said:
“It’s over.”
Imagine Titanic, but instead of “I’ll never let go,” it’s “I’ll let go unless you wire the funds.”

Now? I laugh. We all do. Because I’m not sad—it’s funny in the kind of way that only people who’ve lived it can truly appreciate.
I now live in peace.
I rest when I want to rest.
I pay for things for me.
And I haven’t had to explain to anyone why the toilet is still broken three weeks after he promised to call the plumber.

And that card?
I kept it.
Not for sentimental reasons—but because it’s the most expensive apology I’ve ever received.
Apparently, it was worth exactly €10,000.