The struggling artist I supported for 3 years was a millionaire – I discovered his fortune when I…

He said, “I’ll get a teaching job. Community college, something stable.”

I said, “You don’t have to. Keep painting. Follow your dream.”

But even as I said it, I felt something twist inside me. When was it going to be about my dreams? I’d cut back my hours at the firm and turned down cases, all so I could be home more, so Daniel could paint without worrying about domestic things.

The pregnancy was hard. I was exhausted all the time. I was still working 60-hour weeks because someone had to pay the bills.

I would come home to find Daniel in his studio, lost in his art, while I figured out dinner. One night, seven months pregnant, standing in our empty kitchen, I asked, “Did you go to the grocery store?”

He said, “Sorry, babe. I got caught up in this piece. It’s really coming together.”

I ordered Thai food for the third time that week. My credit card statement was up to $18,000 just from that month.

My mother called. She asked, “How are you managing? Is Daniel working yet?”

“He’s an artist, Mom. It takes time,” I replied.

“Rebecca, you’re about to have a baby,” She said. “You can’t afford to support three people on just your salary.”

“My salary is fine for now,” I said.

“But what about maternity leave?” She asked. “What about when the baby comes and you need help? Is he going to step up?”

I hung up on her, but her words stayed with me. Eight months pregnant. That’s when I found the letter.

I’d been looking for our insurance information. We needed to add the baby to my policy. Daniel said he’d filed all that stuff in the desk in his studio.

I’d never gone through his desk before. It felt like a violation of his space, but I was tired. My feet were swollen.

I just wanted to find the damn insurance cards and be done with it. The letter from Chase Private Client was in the top drawer, just sitting there, not even hidden.

At first, I thought I was reading it wrong. $43 million. That couldn’t be right.

Must be some kind of mistake. Maybe he’d painted something for a millionaire and this was misfiled paperwork.

But then I found the other letters from his family’s trust, from Morgan Stanley, from his attorney about his discretionary portfolio. Daniel Foster, the struggling artist who couldn’t afford pizza, had $43 million.

I stood there, one hand on my enormous belly, the other holding proof that my entire marriage was a lie. The baby kicked hard, like she knew, like she was saying, “Mom, what the hell?”

I heard footsteps. Daniel was coming up from his studio. I turned, still holding the letter.

He stopped when he saw my face, saw what I was holding. “How long?” I asked again.

He walked over, sat down on his painting stool, and looked at his hands. He said quietly, “My family owns Foster Development. Commercial real estate. Ohio, Michigan, Pennsylvania.”

He continued, “My grandfather started it. My father expanded it. When he died five years ago, it went to me and my sister. Our trust is worth about 90 million. I get half.”

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

He said quickly, “The art is real. I really paint. I really wanted to be an artist, but the money… the money was always there.”

“Why?” It was all I could get out.

He said, “Because I wanted someone to love me for me. Not for what I could give them. Not because I could take them to St. Barts or buy them a house in the Hamptons.”

He continued, “I wanted someone who’d eat pizza on a park bench with me because they liked talking to me. Not because they liked my credit limit.”

“So you lied,” I said.

He stood up and said, “I omitted. For three years. I was going to tell you.”

He continued, “I was going to tell you so many times, but then it had been six months and I thought it was too late, and then a year, and then we were engaged, and then married. And I kept thinking, ‘How do I tell her now? How do I explain that I’ve been lying this whole time?'”

“You let me pay for everything?” My voice was shaking.

I said, “You let me spend thousands and thousands of dollars while you had millions just sitting there.”

He said, “I offered to pay. You always said no.”

“Because I thought you couldn’t afford it!” I cried.

The baby kicked again, harder. I felt dizzy.

I said, “I supported you. I cut back at work. I turned down partner track cases. I changed my entire life because I thought you needed me to. Because I thought I was helping you achieve your dreams.”

He said, “You were helping me. You did.”

“No, you didn’t need me at all,” I said. “You just let me play house with the poor artist while you had a secret fortune.”

The Truth Behind the Painted Canvas

He said, “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” I laughed. It came out wrong, harsh.

I said, “You want to talk about fair? I spent three years believing I was in a partnership. An equal partnership.”

I continued, “But you let me be the breadwinner. The responsible one. The one who sacrificed while you played pretend poverty.”

He said, “I wasn’t playing pretend. My art is real. My feelings are real.”

I asked, “How am I supposed to believe anything about you is real?”

I walked past him and started pulling suitcases out of the closet. He followed me into our bedroom and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Packing your things,” I replied.

“Becca, come on,” He said.

“Get out,” I said.

He said, “This is my home, too.”

I threw a shirt at him and asked, “Is it? Or is it just another part of your little experiment in authenticity? Does it make you feel noble living in my apartment, using my furniture, eating food I bought?”

He said, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being ridiculous?” I screamed. “I’m eight months pregnant with your baby, and I just found out my entire marriage is based on a lie!”

He said, “I love you.”

I asked, “How do I know that? How do I know any of it was real? Maybe you just needed a wife for your fantasy.”

I continued, “The successful career woman who’d support the starving artist. Must have been a nice change from the women who wanted your money.”