I Deserve Love
*
The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.
Six years on, life with Robert looked nearly perfect on the surface.
Our days were quiet and domestic. We argued sometimes, but we clung to each other beneath it, not out of love but survival. We both came from chaos. Instead of learning to love, we learned to endure. From the wreckage, we tried to build something.
We started as broke kids juggling school, dead-end jobs, and a dingy apartment.
Eventually, we moved up—one of us earning an associate’s degree and landing a stable job, the other, Robert, struggling to stay enrolled.
We upgraded to a cleaner apartment with trimmed lawns, but the feeling of stuckness followed us. We kept hoping things would change.
Robert dropped out of college, returned, then dropped out again. I supported us financially while finishing my bachelor’s degree. I was able to work full-time at a local software corporation, J-Life, as a Project Manager, smiling through clenched teeth. Most days, my frustration tasted like iron.
After another strained semester, we finally knew why: dyslexia. Robert said it quietly in our cramped apartment, and it landed like a stone. I tried to summon compassion for a man failed by the system, but the weight of his struggle pressed down on me.
We pushed forward. Text-to-speech tools and audiobooks helped Rob stay afloat. It wasn’t perfect, but it helped.
Despite everything, our lives improved. I was grateful Robert stayed, but deep down, I knew—it wasn’t love. It was a necessity. Two broken people who were afraid to let go.
Robert had fallen for the “Manic Pixie Dream Girl” version of me.
But over time, he learned to love the real me, too—the one with strange hobbies, a thing for obscure books, and a passion for long gaming nights.
For the first time, I felt free just to be.
I could read what I wanted, eat sushi alone, and enjoy my solitude. No more pretending.
Sometimes, we discussed renewing our vows on the Yorkshire Moors, wrapped in blankets on our sagging couch. In those moments, life felt like it might be more.
Robert became the reason I stopped dreaming of being Chic City Brianna. Though I also let go of White Trash Brianna in shedding that mask. I became more grounded—mature, maybe—but obsessed with control. I needed order, a plan.
“Bree—are you even listening?”
His voice snapped me back. We’d just parked outside a dying mall, and I’d drifted off. I smiled, faked interest, and followed him out of the car.
Only five other cars dotted the cracked lot. Who even goes to department stores anymore?
I pointed at a plate: BLD 327. “I’m sorry, I blanked.”
Usually, he’d laugh. Today, he didn’t.
Zoning out might spark a fight later, but I let it go. The store’s groaning doors echoed the quiet decay of our lives.
“I’m listening,” I lied.
After seven years, Robert knew my mind wandered. That didn’t make it less frustrating.
He sighed. “B-L-D does not make the word ‘Blanked.’ ‘Bleed’ would have been better.”
He looked at me, with disappointment still brewing, as he shook it off and continued. “I was talking about my appointment. Can you take the day off for it?”
Annoyance bubbled up. “I’ll try, but I wish you’d stop scheduling things during my workday.”
“Maybe you could be more flexible,” he said.
I clenched my jaw, biting back a sharper response. Robert meant therapy sessions to help him unpack a childhood full of trauma. I admired his effort to heal. But in truth, I didn’t feel supportive. I felt trapped.
“If you had asked me first, you’d know I have back-to-back meetings,” I lied again, the words coming too easily.
He looked hurt, but I felt a flicker of satisfaction. I had the upper hand, for once. That power felt stronger than love.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’ll check next time.”
I kissed his cheek, feeling nothing but the cold thrill of having the advantage. As we walked into the store, I wondered how long I could keep pretending.
I told myself Robert was my soulmate. Two broken people trying to mend each other. But the tension never left. It hummed like background static. We kept forcing two mismatched puzzle pieces together, hoping they’d click.
Maybe it was our past. Perhaps it was our wiring—my Aries fire against his Cancer calm. Or, simply, it was just that I refused to be dominated. No matter how deep the love ran, I wouldn’t bend.
We browsed aimlessly. I hated this mall—this crumbling relic from the eighties—but my job as a corporate drone demanded a particular look. To get ahead, I had to look right and appear like I thrived on structure. The cost? Stiff clothes that reminded me of my mother’s self-help seminars.
Lately, Robert had grown quieter. Therapy calmed some storms, but others stirred beneath the surface.
“A penny for your thoughts?” I asked.
“I want to change my major,” he said too lightly.
I froze. I expected something small. Not that.
“What do you mean?” My voice came out sharp.
Images of my father’s empty promises, my mother’s silent anxiety—they surged up. Was I becoming her?
“I can’t fail physics again,” he muttered. “It’s wrecking my GPA.”
“So, what—drop out again? Sit around doing nothing?”
He rolled his eyes. It felt like a slap.
“I’m not dropping out. I’ll finish with my minor. Relax.”
I stormed off, hiding behind a rack of polyester blouses to steady myself. It wasn’t just the major. It was our future. Our stability. How could he be so casual?
When I returned, still simmering, I snapped, “What’s the point of anthropology? How does that help us?”
“What’s the point of college at all?” he replied. “You wanted me to go. I’m trying to finish.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll get a degree and find a job—just like you wanted.”
Guilt twisted in me. I had pushed Robert into this. I thought it was the only way out. I’d forced him down a path he didn’t choose.
“I don’t want you to do it for me,” I whispered.
His expression softened. “Then why are you so mad?”
“I don’t know.” I laughed bitterly, blinking back tears.
We hugged. The tension eased. But nothing was resolved.
We went home with fast food and sale-rack blouses, pretending everything was fine. But Rob’s words clung to me. What did they mean—for us, our debt, and our future?
The love I once clung to now felt like a weight. I didn’t want to rescue anyone. I wanted control.
As we walked to the car, I held his hand—not for affection, but to anchor myself, to keep up the illusion that I still had it all together.
Later that night, I scrolled through home goods, clicking “Add to Cart” for things I didn’t need. Each purchase was a small rebellion—a hit of autonomy.
When Robert saw the bill, he confronted me. I lied again—said I’d pay for it with my next check. I already knew I’d bury the debt elsewhere.
Still, I smiled for Instagram, cooked dinner, and paid the bills. On the outside, I had become everything my mother wanted: polished, suburban, the perfect wife. But it was all built on lies.
Not everyone deserves love. Maybe some of us are too guarded, too broken. I told myself power was safer. Love was too uncertain. Losing control now would be unthinkable.
The chaos I feared wasn’t some looming future. It was already here—woven into every compromise I called love.
It looked a lot like my $15 zucchini spiralizer.