Bread, Tea, and Unspoken Expectations: The Cost of Love with Michael

“You know, Naomi, I’ll Venmo you for the bread.”

That’s what Michael said last Thursday, as he watched me unload grocery bags onto the kitchen counter. The fluorescent light flickered above us, casting weird shadows as I stacked the same old things: eggs, milk, coffee, a loaf of sourdough, strawberries, that oat milk he likes. I paused in the middle of putting away the cheese, the cold plastic sweating in my hand.

“Just bread?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light.

He didn’t look up from his phone. “Yeah, I mean, you said you wanted me to pick up bread. So I’ll pay you back.”

I wanted to laugh—maybe even scream. Or both. Instead, I nudged the fridge shut with my hip and tried to breathe through the familiar pressure in my chest. It wasn’t about bread, not really. It was about the slow, invisible tally of every dollar I spent and every time he didn’t notice.

Let me back up. My name is Naomi, and I met Michael three years ago at a friend’s Fourth of July barbecue in St. Paul. He was charming, funny, leaned in when I talked. By December, we were living together in a cozy duplex with creaky floors and a view of the neighbor’s rusty trampoline. At first, sharing our lives—and the bills—felt easy. We split rent, utilities, Netflix. But groceries? Somehow, that always ended up on me, and I didn’t mind—until I did.

The first time I noticed it was a Tuesday after work. I was tired, cranky, and when I opened the fridge, it was empty except for a jar of pickles. Michael wandered in, hungry, and asked, “Did you go to the store?” I shrugged, too exhausted to argue, and ordered pizza. But from then on, the pattern grew. I’d restock the fridge, he’d eat, and his only contribution was sometimes brewing a pot of tea with bags I’d bought.

Last month, I decided to keep track. I wrote down everything I bought: coffee, cereal, apples, chicken, the almond butter he eats by the spoonful, that fancy kombucha he likes, even the $4.99 box of his favorite herbal tea. In six weeks, I’d spent over $400. Michael? He bought bread—once—because I texted him a reminder.

It’s not that Michael is cheap. He’s generous with his friends, always picking up the tab for beers or concert tickets. But when it comes to us, to our home, he just… doesn’t think about it. Or maybe he does, and he’s just used to someone else handling it.

One night, after another silent dinner, I tried to bring it up. My voice shook as I asked, “Do you ever think about splitting groceries? I feel like I’m always the one paying.”

He frowned, surprised. “But you like shopping. You always say you want to pick out the produce.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to pay for everything,” I said, a little sharper than I meant to.

He looked hurt. “I just didn’t realize. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

I wanted to scream, but all I could do was whisper, “I shouldn’t have to.”

The next morning, he left a five-dollar bill on the counter. For the bread, I guessed. I stared at it, feeling smaller than ever.

Our friends notice, too. At brunch, I joked about Michael’s legendary ability to avoid grocery shopping. Our friend Sarah laughed. “Men are like that! My Kyle never buys toilet paper.” But something in her eyes said she knew it wasn’t funny.

My mom called the next night. “How’s Michael?” she asked. I hesitated, then blurted out the whole story. She sighed, her voice soft. “Naomi, don’t let yourself become invisible. This is how resentment starts.”

I started noticing other things: how Michael never cleans the coffee maker, how he leaves his socks on the couch, how he expects gratitude for small gestures but doesn’t see the work piling up on my side. I wondered if this was just about groceries, or if it was about the invisible labor women carry—always smoothing things over, always making life easier for everyone else.

Last week, I tried again. “Michael, I need you to help more—not just with money, but with noticing. With caring.”

He looked at me, finally really looked. “I’m sorry, Naomi. I… I didn’t know you felt this way. I’ll try to do better.”

But what does ‘better’ mean? Is it Venmo-ing me $10 every week, or is it realizing that partnership means seeing the other person’s effort? Is it asking what we need, or just finally buying the damn tea without being told?

I sit at the kitchen table now, staring at the receipt from today’s shopping trip. I love Michael, but sometimes love feels like a list of things I’m expected to do. I wonder if I’m expecting too much, or if I’m finally seeing clearly.

Does anyone else feel this way? When does giving become giving in? When does love start to cost too much?