When Matt offered to pay our rent, it felt romantic — like a promise of partnership. But after we moved in together, his generosity turned into control. My things were shoved into a closet, and he told me I owed him — cooking, following his rules — because he paid the bills.

Realizing love shouldn’t come with strings, I quietly called his father, who quickly showed up and delivered the wake-up call Matt needed. “Dance,” he told his son, after slapping a dollar on the counter. “I paid you. I own you now, right?” Matt was humiliated. I moved out that night. Now, I live in a small studio filled with my things, on my terms. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine — and no one controls me. Love without respect isn’t love. It’s ownership. And I’ll never settle for that again.