Not Married, No Say

I’ve always believed that if someone lives in your house, eats your food, and uses your Wi-Fi, you’re in a partnership. Jessica—my girlfriend of two years and rent-free roommate of six months—believed she was the sun and I was a decorative planet grateful for the heat.

My name’s on the mortgage, the utilities, and the tasteful little plaque by the front door that reads The Wilsons—which she bought without asking me, a purchase that in hindsight was wildly optimistic. I work from home as a graphic designer. I like quiet. I experiment with frozen pizzas on Fridays. Jessica isn’t like that. Her life is a performance staged for her three best friends—a cackling Greek chorus I call the Harpies: Tiffany, Brittany, and the third one whose legal name might honestly be Chardonnay.

The blowup started on a Thursday.

I was stirring pasta sauce when Jessica waltzed in, already dressed like a walking glitter bomb, phone to her ear. “Oh my God, yes, I am so in,” she squealed. “A weekend at the lake is exactly what I need. No, he’s not coming. Don’t be ridiculous.”

She hung up, beaming. “Good news! Girls’ trip. We leave tomorrow.”

“Sounds fun,” I said. “Which lake?”

You know how some questions are just… questions? In Jessica’s world, mine was a felony. She looked at me like I’d asked her to diagram particle physics in Old Norse. Tiffany breezed into my kitchen at that exact moment, and Jessica tossed the line over her shoulder the way villains toss matches.

“Stop acting like we’re married,” she said, hands on hips. “You don’t get a say in where I go or who I’m with.”

The Harpies howled. Somewhere, a studio audience flashed APPLAUSE.

I stood there with a wooden spoon, marinara dripping onto the floor, and felt a peculiar calm settle over me. The part of my brain that had been tirelessly editing us into “workable” packed a tiny suitcase, put on a tiny hat, and left without a note.

“You know what?” I said, smiling like a friendly cardboard cutout. “You’re absolutely right. My mistake.”

They laughed louder, the chorus swelling as they swept out to a pre-weekend cocktail hour. When the door clicked shut, the house went quiet except for the sauce bubbling on the stove.

“Okay,” I told the fridge magnet that says LIVE LAUGH LASAGNA. “New plan.”

Operation: Bachelor Pad Resurrection

At 2 p.m. Friday, Jessica’s car—presumably packed with five kinds of glitter and a rosé varietal sampler—disappeared down the street. I marched next door to see my secret weapon: Mrs. Gable, an 80-year-old widow with a rose garden that wins ribbons and a neighborhood surveillance network that could humble the CIA. I brought lemon cake. She brought righteous fury.

I gave her the script: When Jessica returned, there’d be a little theater. A line here, a raised eyebrow there. Mrs. Gable’s eyes twinkled. “What’s my cue?” she asked, already in character.

Back home, I didn’t just pack Jessica’s things—I curated the experience. I fetched boxes, a thick black marker, and got to work:

Everyday Clothes
Fancy Clothes for Fancy Outings I Wasn’t Invited To
Magic Sparkly Dresses (May Shed)
A Podiatrist’s Nightmare (thirty-seven pairs of identical heels)
Face Paint & Various Goops (the bathroom products could moisturize a small nation)

By dawn Saturday, every trace of Jessica existed only in Sharpie on cardboard. Two guys from a moving app helped load everything into a 10×5 storage unit. I paid for a month. Generous, for a non-marital situation.

Then came the glow-up. The beige rug? Rolled and re-homed. In its place: an astroturf rug printed like a football field. The sterile white couch? Sold. Replaced by a black leather recliner sofa with approximately sixteen cup holders. The minimalist coffee table? Out. A vintage, non-functional pinball machine that lights up? In. The bedroom’s dangling macramé? Down. Up went a framed poster of a grizzly catching a salmon because it felt right in my soul.

And then, the crown jewel.

I went to the animal shelter “just to look” and came home with a 120-pound St. Bernard puppy named Gus. “Puppy” is a technicality. Gus is a furry, drooling, thunderous nap with legs. He lumbered in, looked at the new sofa, and claimed it by falling asleep diagonally across it, snoring like a chainsaw cozy.

I changed all the passwords. The Wi-Fi network became GetYourOwnWiFi. The password: notmarriedlol.

By Sunday evening I was a man at ease, a beer in one hand, Gus’s massive head in my lap, my doorbell camera feed on my phone. The storm, I knew, would arrive at nine.

“My Key Isn’t Working!”

9:02 p.m. The camera pinged. Jessica, sun-kissed from a fun weekend not as fun as mine, strolled up the path. She tried her key. It slid in and did exactly nothing because the new deadbolt I installed that morning did exactly everything.

Jiggle. Sigh. Bang bang bang.

Gus lifted his head, rumbled a warning woof, then returned to sleep like he’d punched a time clock.

My phone vibrated on the pinball machine. Jessica calling. Decline. Again. Decline. Again. Decline. Five times. The banging escalated from sitcom to off-Broadway.

Then, right on cue, a porch light flicked on next door. Mrs. Gable, in a housecoat and slippers, stepped into the role she was born to play.

“Oh, Jessica, dear, is that you?” she called, voice equal parts concern and glee.

“Mrs. Gable, thank God,” Jessica gasped. “My key isn’t working. Is Tom home? I can see lights.”

“Oh, Tom’s home,” Mrs. Gable said, nodding sagely. “He’s had the most wonderful weekend. A real transformation. He told me the good news.”

“Good… news?”

“That you two aren’t married,” she confided. “He said he doesn’t get a say in anything you do, so he celebrated his newfound freedom. He redecorated the whole house. Very rugged. And he got a dog. A great big beautiful boy named Gus. Said he wanted a companion who was loyal and didn’t talk back. Isn’t that sweet?”

Jessica’s jaw unhinged. She peered through the window. From my throne (seat three of sixteen) I watched comprehension dawn: football field rug, glowing pinball machine, a colossal St. Bernard snoring where her throw pillows once died. She made a noise that belongs in zoology.

My phone lit with a novel’s worth of texts in all caps. I sent one message back:

You said to stop acting like we’re married. You said I don’t get a say. I agree. This is my house; you don’t get a say in how I live in it. Since we’re not married, I’ve returned your non-marital property to a secure location: 123 Storage Way, Unit 42. Code 1234. You have one month. Have a great life.

Then I blocked her number.

She read the text. Looked at the window. Looked at the phone. Screamed, threw the phone onto the lawn, and performed a meltdown so operatic Gus briefly woke to applaud.

Tiffany arrived to collect the wreckage. The doorbell camera captured their retreat. I turned off the feed and scratched Gus behind the ears. “Good boy,” I told both of us.

Aftershocks

The next forty-eight hours brought exactly what you think: Instagram stories with sad music, captions about toxic men and knowing one’s worth, a carousel of quotes that looked like they’d been printed on throw pillows in a mall kiosk. Our mutuals sent me screenshots with question marks.

I didn’t reply. I posted a photo album to my private page visible to exactly the people who needed context.

Before: my old living room—beige couch, pointless bowls, the aesthetic of a dental waiting room.
After: the leather throne, the football rug, the pinball glow, and Gus sprawled majestically like a throw blanket with a heartbeat.
Caption: Decided to redecorate based on my new relationship status. Was told I’m not married and don’t get a say, so I’m embracing my freedom. #BachelorPad #DogIsMyCopilot #NoSayNoStay

Nuclear. The combo of petty wit and weaponized dog cuteness flipped the narrative overnight. Sympathy posts evaporated. DMs from friends arrived: Dude, I’m crying; Gus supremacy; I did not expect the pinball machine but I respect it.

A lawyer letter did slither in: demands for access, compensation for “homelessness,” etc. My attorney mailed back a packet: mortgage in my name, utilities in my name, and a polite question about whether Jessica would be reimbursing six months of rent, food, and electricity as a non-married person with no obligations. We never heard from that lawyer again.

A month later, at the dog park, the third Harpy (not legally named Chardonnay, tragically) approached me, hands in pockets.

“Hey, Tom,” she said, flushing. “We were out of line that night. I’m… sorry.”

I shrugged. “Jessica said what she said. I just took her at her word.”

“She’s a lot,” she admitted. “Called me last week to complain her parents are making her get a job. Says it’s your fault for ruining her life.” She watched Gus attempt to fit three tennis balls in his mouth. “Honestly? Looks like you’re doing just fine.”

She wasn’t wrong.

The house no longer looks like a catalog for Sad Beige. The pinball machine still doesn’t work; I love it anyway. Gus is an excellent roommate—loyal, hilarious, unfazed by my cooking, and spectacular at reminding me to go outside.

Here’s what I learned: sometimes the best revenge is radical agreement. Jessica told me exactly who she was and exactly what our relationship meant to her. I believed her. She said I didn’t get a say.

Now, in her life, I truly don’t.

And in mine, she doesn’t either.