My fiancé said, “Add your clinic and your house to my name before the wedding—or there is no wedding.” I told him I’d think it over. That weekend, I replaced every lock on every door I owned. He found out on Monday—when he showed up at my clinic and the code didn’t work anymore. And the locksmith was finishing the deadbolt while he stood there watching…
My fiancé asked me to transfer ownership of my clinic and my house the way some people ask for extra ice in a drink.
Casual. As if greed could pass for reason when delivered in a calm voice.
We were in my kitchen on a Thursday evening, two months before the wedding, standing beneath pendant lights I had picked myself when I renovated the space after my residency. One of his hands rested in his pocket, the other holding a glass of bourbon he hadn’t paid for, and he said, “Add your clinic and your house to my name before the wedding—or there is no wedding.”
For a moment, I genuinely thought he was joking.
Then I looked at his face.
No smile. No softening. No embarrassment. Just expectation.
