Because the truth was, I liked comfort.
I liked waking up without asking if the electricity bill was paid.
I liked buying food without looking at my bank account first.
I liked the warm house, the quiet mornings and the feeling that, for once in my life, I was not a bad week away from losing everything.
But Richard was nice to me.
Kinder than I had expected.
I remembered how I had coffee. She noticed when she was tired. I listened when I was talking, even when what I said was of no importance.
And at some point, in an uncomfortable and almost shameful way, I stopped pretending that I didn’t care.
I really loved him.
So Richard got sick.
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