Fifteen minutes later, his dad showed up. Without saying much, he placed a single dollar bill on the counter and said, “Dance. I paid you. That’s how this works, right?”
Matt flushed with embarrassment.
His father continued,
“You think paying the bills gives you the right to control someone? That’s not how I raised you.”
That was the breaking point.
I packed my things, and with Mr. Reynolds’s help, I moved out that same night.
Matt didn’t try to stop me—he just sat there, humiliated and speechless.
Now I live alone in a small but cozy studio apartment.
The rent stretches my budget, but everything in this space is mine. My place. My terms. My self-respect. Love should never come with strings.
If generosity is used to control, it’s not love—it’s manipulation.
And I won’t accept that ever again.
