The freeloading ends today. My husband declared it right after his promotion, announcing that from now on, we’d have separate bank accounts. I agreed. And then, on Sunday — his sister came for dinner. She looked at the table, looked at me and said: “About time he stopped…”

He had one hand gripped firmly on the steering wheel of his expensive SUV while the other tugged at the knot of his silk tie, which was the same forest green one I had bought him for his birthday because he claimed every executive needed to look authoritative.

He was still flushed from the celebratory dinner we had just finished, and he carried the heavy scents of expensive steakhouse smoke, aged bourbon, and the smugness of a recent victory.

The dim glow from the dashboard instruments illuminated the sharp lines of his jaw, making him look more like a character in a high budget advertisement for corporate ambition than the man I had married six years ago.

We were traveling north past the flickering lights of the city skyline while our four year old daughter, Chloe, slept soundly in the back seat with her favorite stuffed elephant tucked under her arm.

The urban landscape rolled past us in a blur of gold streetlamps and glass office towers that reflected the late night traffic.