How I Made My Millionaire Boyfriend Want to Marry Me: Part 2

In early Decem­ber, Marco popped the ques­tion in our bed­room with our horse of a dog by his side. I was shocked that he didn’t wait too long, but dis­heart­ened that he asked me the day before he was to fly out to Toronto. The only thing I could think of was that he wanted this arrange­ment to stay in place, and that meant his other woman in Toronto, Karen, would con­tinue sleep­ing with my guy when he was in town. To be clear, I was never OK with this and did not want this to continue.

We were happy for the moment. I decided it was a good morn­ing to cook break­fast and was think­ing of a way to bring up the sub­ject of Karen, now that we were offi­cially engaged. I hes­i­tated to tell my fam­ily, whom we had just shared Thanks­giv­ing din­ner with a week ago, about the pro­posal and Marco took notice. “Why aren’t you call­ing your fam­ily and friends to break the news?” he asked jokingly.

I wanted to talk to you about some­thing first,” I shyly responded as I flipped the pan­cakes over.

Let me guess, Karen. Right?” he said.

Yes, actu­ally,” I responded lock­ing eyes with him. Marco rolled his eyes and pre­pared for yet another foot-in-mouth response.

Isn’t there a uni­ver­sal rule about dif­fer­ent zip codes, states, and coun­tries that makes it alright with you Amer­i­can women? Did you really think that when I asked you to marry me, it was so I would change the way things are in my life? The only thing that changes with our mar­riage is your last name and a pretty piece of jew­elry on your left hand. You have worked very hard to become a woman I am proud to call my wife, but more than any­thing, this is just to make you happy, not me. I do not need to be mar­ried to be happy. I was mar­ried once and not happy. I care for you and love you, but let’s be real here. I am who I am and that will never change. You can either accept it or not. ”

As  I stood there lis­ten­ing to the garbage run­ning out of my older lover’s mouth, I looked at his gray­ing hairs in his side­burns, the thin­ning hair on the top of his head, and the begin­nings of a pot­belly. I thought to myself, “Maybe this is for the best. I don’t need him any­more; I can make it on my own. I’m not sure how yet, but I’m smart and will fig­ure it out.”

Instead of respond­ing to Marco right away, I sim­ply nod­ded, as I real­ized that I had for­got­ten to flip the pan­cakes and they were burn­ing. He left shortly after.