I did not understand that yet.
About a year into our relationship, Sarah wanted to leave the suburb where we lived.
Philadelphia had more galleries.
More events.
More photographers.
More agencies.
More potential clients.
The apartment she wanted was nearly nine hundred dollars more per month than the place we had.
My commute would grow.
Parking would become painful.
I said yes anyway.
Not immediately.
I ran the numbers first.
That was me.
Salary.
Utilities.
Savings.
Insurance.
Rent.
I could make it work if I took occasional weekend IT jobs.
Sarah offered to keep more café shifts.
I told her not to.
“If you’re moving for photography, then do photography.”
“Mark.”
“I mean it.”
“You need time.”
She looked at me in that intense way she did when she was emotional but did not want to show it.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“You believe I can actually do this.”
“I wouldn’t reorganize my whole life if I didn’t.”
She kissed me.
For the next two years, I built my schedule around giving Sarah room to build hers.
Monday through Friday, healthcare IT.
Saturday mornings, freelance support for small businesses.
Occasional Sunday migrations.
Emergency calls.
Home routers.
Office networks.
Database backups.
Anything that paid.
We split household expenses, but not evenly.
Most months, I covered more.
Some months, almost everything.
I did not keep score.
That became a mistake later, but not because I should have demanded repayment.
Love should not be accounting.
The mistake was that I stopped asking whether the arrangement still felt mutual.
There is a difference.
Sarah began getting real work.
Headshots.
Events.
A small clothing brand.
An indie musician.
Then a regional magazine bought three images.
I framed the magazine cover even though her photograph was only inside.
She hated that.
“You’re such a dad.”
“I’m proud.”
“You’re thirty.”
“Advanced emotional maturity.”
“You alphabetize your spice rack.”
“That is unrelated.”
Her career grew slowly.
So did our life.
We talked about buying a house.
Maybe marriage.
Maybe children later.
Sarah wanted a studio.
I wanted a garage large enough for a workbench.
We had even started browsing listings.
There was one little row house we both liked.
Exposed brick.
Tiny backyard.
Terrible plumbing.
Sarah stood in the upstairs room and said:
“This could be my studio.”
I stood in the basement and said:
“This could be a mold lawsuit.”
We did not buy it.
Still, we talked about it for weeks.
That was our future then.
At least mine.
The first time Sarah mentioned Alex Mercer, I was making dinner.
Chicken.
Rice.
Something easy.
She came through the door after a gallery opening with her camera bag bouncing against her hip.
“There’s this photographer.”
She said.
“Okay.”
“Alex Mercer.”
“Should I know him?”
“You would if you paid attention to anything visual.”
“I paid attention when you bought that eight-hundred-dollar lens.”
“Nine hundred.”
“That correction hurts me.”
She rolled her eyes.
“His work is incredible.”
She showed me his profile.
Alex was thirty-four.
Tall.
Thin.
Dark hair.