The night my husband got his promotion, he didn’t smile, didn’t hug me; he just looked me straight in the eyes and said, “You’re done taking advantage of me.” Then, as if giving a cold, impersonal report on his work, he announced that from now on, we would have separate bank accounts.

The promotion email still glowed on his laptop screen, the subject line announcing his appointment as regional sales manager. Congratulations! Meanwhile, the bottle of champagne I’d bought sat chilled in the refrigerator, untouched, while I stood at the counter, chopping a pepper and trying to catch my breath.

“Separate accounts?” I asked, keeping my voice calm while looking at my husband across the kitchen island.

“Yeah,” he said, crossing his arms with the same smug smile he had after landing a big contract. “I’m not your vending machine, Megan. I worked hard for this promotion and I’m tired of carrying the weight of it all while you’re off enjoying your little freelance hobby.”

This small freelance hobby had paid our mortgage for three consecutive years before his salary even increased. It had also funded his MBA and the stock options I sold after being laid off from my tech job last year.

“Okay,” I replied, wiping my hands with a towel, as casually as if he’d suggested I switch cereal brands. “If that’s what you want.”

He blinked, clearly expecting an argument that never came. “From now on, we’ll share everything equally: the bills, the groceries, the mortgage, and we’re closing the joint account.”

He added that his car expenses were his responsibility and mine were mine, and that he was tired of seeing his salary disappear into what he called household expenses. I thought back to the washing machine we had bought when his sister had cried because hers had broken, and the pile of medical bills his mother had left on the table last winter.