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

He stared at me. He asked, “That’s what you think? That you were part of some game?”

I asked, “What else am I supposed to think?”

We stood there facing each other across the bed. I was crying; I hadn’t even realized it.

I said quietly, “I thought you were different. I thought you valued things beyond money. I thought you were genuine.”

He said, “I am genuine.”

“You’re a liar,” I told him.

I told him to pack his things and go. He tried to argue, tried to explain, but I couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t look at him.

He left that night. He said, “I’m going to a hotel.”

I didn’t ask which one. Didn’t care.

I sat in our empty apartment surrounded by his paintings and cried until I couldn’t breathe. My phone started ringing.

I didn’t answer, but the voicemails piled up. Daniel, my mother, Emma, Sarah—everyone had an opinion.

Finally, I listened to one. It was Emma’s voice, “Becca, Mom told me what happened. I’m coming over.”

She showed up with ice cream and fury. She said, “He lied to you for three years?”

“Yep,” I said.

“What an asshole,” Emma said.

But then she paused. “Although…”

I asked, “Although what?”

She said, “I don’t know. Is it that different from him being actually poor? You still married him. You still loved him.”

“The deception is the problem, Emma,” I said.

“I know, I know it is,” She said.

She ate ice cream straight from the carton. Then she asked, “But like, didn’t you kind of like taking care of him?”

“What?” I asked.

She said, “Come on, Becca. You loved being needed. You loved being the strong one, the provider. It made you feel good.”

“That’s not—” I started.

“It is,” She said. “I saw how you lit up when you talked about supporting his art, how you took care of him. You liked it.”

I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t. My mother came by next.

I expected her to gloat, to say she told me so, but she surprised me. She said, “He loves you.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

She said, “Because a man with $43 million doesn’t spend three years in a one-bedroom apartment eating takeout if he doesn’t love the woman he’s with.”

“He lied, Mom,” I said.

“Yes, he did. And that’s wrong,” She said.

She sat next to me on the couch. “But Rebecca, you’re not perfect either.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

She said, “It means you liked being the successful one, the one with power. You liked that he needed you financially because it meant he couldn’t leave.”

I stared at her. She said, “I know you, honey. You’ve always been terrified of people leaving you ever since your father and I almost divorced when you were 12. You control things: money, career, relationships. You liked being the one in control.”

“That’s not true,” I said.

“Isn’t it?” She asked. “Why do you think you never dated successful men? You always found something wrong with them. Too arrogant, too competitive. But Daniel? He needed you. Or you thought he did. It felt safe.”

I couldn’t speak. My mother said again, “He lied. That’s not okay. But ask yourself, would you have given him a chance if you’d known he was rich? Would you have let your guard down?”

After she left, I sat there for hours, thinking, remembering. I remembered our first date.

I remembered how I’d been surprised when he suggested pizza because I’d assumed he was just being cheap. I remembered how relieved I’d felt that he wasn’t trying to impress me with expensive restaurants.

I remembered feeling superior, feeling like I was better than those shallow women who only cared about money, like I was evolved, enlightened. But was I?

Or had I just found a different way to measure worth, a different way to keep people at arm’s length? The baby kicked.

I put my hand on my belly. I told her, “Your father’s an idiot. But so is your mother.”

I went to see a therapist. Doctor Martinez was a short woman with kind eyes who didn’t let me get away with anything.

In our first session, I said, “He lied. For years.”

“Yes, he did. That must have hurt deeply,” She said.

“It did. It does,” I said.

She leaned forward and asked, “Can I ask you something? Why did you support him financially?”

“Because he needed it. He was poor,” I said.

“But you didn’t know that for certain when you met him,” She said. “You offered to pay for things. You insisted sometimes. Why?”

I thought about it. “I wanted to help,” I said.

“Or did you want to be needed?” She asked.

“What’s the difference?” I asked.

She said, “Helping is about the other person. Being needed is about you.”

I felt something crack inside me. Dr. Martinez asked, “When did you feel most loved in this relationship?”

I expected to say, “When we talked about art. When he painted me. When he told me I was beautiful.”

But what came out was, “When he asked me for help. When he needed money for supplies. When he couldn’t afford things.”

She nodded. “And how did you feel when you found out he didn’t need your money?”

“Betrayed,” I said.

“What else?” She asked.

“Angry,” I replied.

“What else?” She asked.

I started crying. “Useless.”

There it was, the ugly truth. I’d needed him to need me.

His poverty made me essential. His dependence made me safe.

Dr. Martinez said, “He lied. That’s a fact. But Rebecca, you have to ask yourself, what were you lying about?”

I went home that night and pulled out my phone. I scrolled through three years of messages and saw the pattern I’d refused to see.