The moment I saw Olivia dancing barefoot at that music festival, her sundress swirling as she sang off-key to our favorite band, I was a goner. We bonded instantly over craft beers and a mutual hatred of pineapple on pizza. By our third date, I was already imagining our future together.
Our whirlwind romance felt like something out of a movie. She’d surprise me with breakfast in bed on Sundays. I’d fill her apartment with flowers just to see her smile. When I got down on one knee during the band’s encore eight months later, her tearful “yes” felt like the beginning of forever.
Then came the engagement dinner that changed everything.
I’d expected warm congratulations from her parents. What I got was a spreadsheet of financial expectations that still makes my palms sweat to remember.
“Let’s discuss practical matters,” her father began, adjusting his cufflinks. What followed was a detailed breakdown of my expected contributions:
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$150,000 salary minimum to support Olivia’s “modest” lifestyle
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Full payment of her student loans ($87,000)
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A monthly $3,000 “family gift” to her parents
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First-class travel for all family vacations
When I turned to Olivia in disbelief, she just shrugged. “Mom and Dad have always taken care of me. Now it’ll be your turn.”
The worst part? This explained so many little things I’d brushed off – how she’d “forget” her wallet whenever we went out, her casual comments about “marrying well,” even her mother’s not-so-subtle questions about my 401k during our first phone call.
That night, as I packed my things while Olivia screamed that I was “abandoning” her, I realized something terrifying: I’d nearly married a stranger. The carefree artist I fell for was actually a woman who saw marriage as an economic arrangement.
Now, a year later, I’ve learned to spot red flags earlier. I take relationships slower. I ask hard questions about money and family expectations upfront. And when I hear that band’s songs on the radio? I don’t think of romance anymore – I think of the bullet I dodged.
