His salary is about €4,760, mine is €770. When I took out my card at the restaurant, he said, ‘Don’t make me laugh.’ Three months later I heard, ‘You’re taking advantage of me.’”
The first time he pushed my card away was in an Italian restaurant on Pushkinskaya. The waiter brought the card terminal; the bill was about €85 — we had seafood and wine. I reached into my bag for my wallet, but Konstantin caught my hand.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to pay my half.”
He laughed, and even the waiter smiled.
“Natalia, don’t. It looks ridiculous.”
He tapped his own card. We stepped outside; it was early May, warm out. I said:
“Kostya, I really feel awkward. Let me at least pay for myself.”
He put his arm around my shoulders.
“Listen, I make decent money. About €4,760 a month. I won’t even notice that money. And how much do you make?”
“About €770.”
“There you go. Why would you spend almost a tenth of your salary on one dinner? I can easily afford to feed both of us.”
It sounded logical. I agreed. We had been dating for two weeks, and he always paid. At cafés, at the movies, for taxis. I tried to offer, but he refused. He said it was his pleasure.
A month later I moved in with him. Or rather, he suggested it, and I thought, why not? I was renting a one-room apartment for about €320, living alone, never saving anything. He had a three-bedroom place in a good neighborhood, and the mortgage was almost paid off. He said:
“Move in. There’s plenty of room. And besides, I like having you around.”
I moved in with two suitcases.
Konstantin worked as a financial analyst, constantly sitting with his laptop, calling clients, going to meetings. I worked as an administrator at a dental clinic, from eight to five. I got home before he did, cooked dinner, cleaned up. He came back late, tired, and we had dinner, watched something, and went to bed.
One Saturday we went to a hypermarket. We bought groceries for the week — the cart was full. At the checkout, the total came to about €125. Konstantin paid with his card, and we loaded the bags into the car. I said:
“Kostya, let me transfer you half. Or at least pay for my own groceries.”
He started the car.
“Natalia, this again? I don’t mind. What difference does it make?”
“Well, it’s awkward. You’re always paying.”
He shrugged.
“When it starts to bother me, I’ll tell you.”
I fell silent. On the one hand, it was convenient. On the other, I had this feeling that I owed him something. Even though he was the one refusing.
Then there was the story with his birthday. I bought him a watch — not cheap, but not outrageously expensive either, about €250. I budgeted for a month, saving up. I gave it to him that evening. He opened the box and looked at it.
“Thanks. It’s nice.”
He put it on, turned his wrist, that was it. No excitement at all. That evening he took it off and put it in his desk drawer. He never wore it again. A week later I asked:
“Didn’t you like the watch?”
“It’s fine. I just already have a good one.”
He showed me his — an Omega, worth about €1,700. That’s when I realized: my €250 meant nothing to him. It was pocket change, something he wouldn’t even notice.
Two months went by. One evening Konstantin came home in a bad mood. He threw down his briefcase, sat on the couch, and buried himself in his phone. I asked:
“What happened?”
“The project fell through. No bonus.”
I sat down beside him:
“…continued in the first comment.
His salary is €4,759, mine is €771. When I pulled out my card at the restaurant, he said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Three months later I heard: ‘You’re freeloading off me.’”
The first time he pushed my card away was at an Italian restaurant on Pushkinskaya. The waiter brought the terminal; the bill was about €85 — we had seafood and wine. I reached into my bag for my wallet, but Konstantin caught my hand.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to pay my half.”
He laughed, and even the waiter smiled.
“Natalya, don’t. It looks ridiculous.”
He tapped his own card. We went outside; it was early May, warm out. I said:
“Kostya, I really feel awkward. Let me at least pay for myself.”
He put an arm around my shoulders.
“Listen, my salary is fine. €4,759 a month. I won’t even notice that money. And how much do you make?”
“€771.”
“There you go. Why would you spend almost a tenth of your salary on one dinner? I can easily afford to feed both of us.”
It sounded logical. I agreed. We had been dating for two weeks, and he always paid. At cafés, at the movies, for taxis. I tried to offer — he refused. He said it gave him pleasure.
A month later I moved in with him. Or rather, he suggested it, and I thought — why not? I was renting a one-room apartment for €317, living alone, saving nothing. He had a three-room apartment in a good neighborhood, and the mortgage was almost paid off. He said:
“Move in. There’s plenty of room. And besides, I like having you around.”
So I moved in with two suitcases.
Konstantin worked as a financial analyst, always sitting with his laptop, on calls with clients, going to meetings. I worked as an administrator at a dental clinic, from eight to five. I got home before he did, cooked dinner, cleaned up. He came back late, tired, we ate, watched something, and went to bed.
One Saturday we went to a hypermarket. We bought a week’s worth of groceries — the cart was full. At the register the total came to €125. Konstantin paid with his card, and we loaded the bags into the car. I said:
“Kostya, let me transfer you half. Or at least pay for my own groceries.”
He started the car.
“Natalya, again with this? I don’t mind. What difference does it make?”
“It just feels awkward. You’re always paying.”
He shrugged.
“When it starts bothering me, I’ll tell you.”
I went quiet. On the one hand, it was convenient. On the other, I had the feeling I owed him something. Even though he was the one refusing.
Then there was the story with his birthday. I bought him a watch — not cheap, but not outrageous either, €249. I budgeted for a month, saved up. I gave it to him that evening. He opened the box, looked at it.
“Thanks. Nice.”
He put it on, turned his wrist, that was all. No excitement. That evening he took it off, put it in the desk drawer, and never wore it again. A week later I asked:
“Didn’t you like the watch?”
“It’s fine. I already have a good one.”
He showed me his — an Omega, worth about €1,700. I understood: my €249 meant nothing to him. Something too small for him to even notice.
Two months passed. One evening Konstantin came home angry. He threw down his briefcase, sat on the couch, and buried himself in his phone. I asked:
“What happened?”
“A project fell through. No bonus.”
I sat down next to him.
“That’s too bad. But your salary is still there, right?”
He looked at me like I was an idiot.
“Natalya, with my job, salary is only a third of my income. The main part is bonuses. And there won’t be any.”
I nodded. We sat in silence. Then he added:
“It’s unbelievable, really. Utilities for a three-room apartment are €170. Maintaining the car. Constantly buying groceries for two.”
I became alert.
“Kostya, are you hinting that I should contribute?”
He waved it off.
“No. I’m just thinking out loud.”
But it left a residue. The next day I transferred him €113 with the note: “For groceries.” He accepted it and wrote: “Thanks.” No smiley face, no “you shouldn’t have.” He just took it.
A week later we had a fight. Over something stupid — I forgot to buy his favorite cheese. He came home, opened the fridge.
“Seriously? I asked you.”
“I forgot. I’ll buy it tomorrow.”
“Natalya, you get home earlier. Is it really that hard to stop by the store?”
I got angry.
“I work too! I’m not sitting at home!”
He smirked.
“You work. For €771. Great career. Want to get me a job there too?”
I froze. He continued, more calmly now:
“That’s not what I meant. I just think you could find something that pays better. Then you could contribute properly, not just €113 once a month.”
“I never asked you to support me!”
“You live in my apartment. You eat my food. You’ve been freeloading off me for six months.”
It hit me like a blunt object. I just stood there staring at him. Then he turned around, went into the room, and shut the door.
He earns €4,759. He pays around €567 toward his mortgage. Utilities are €170. Car payment, gas, insurance — another €227. That still leaves him with about €3,796. And he says I’m freeloading off him.
I stood up and went into the bedroom. Konstantin was lying on the bed, looking at his tablet. I asked:
“Do you really think I’m a freeloader?”
He didn’t look up.
“That’s not what I said.”
“You said I’m freeloading off you.”
“What else would you call it? You don’t pay for the apartment, you don’t pay for food, I drive you around in my car. What do you call that?”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Kostya, I offered to split things. You refused. You said you didn’t mind.”
He finally looked at me.
“I don’t mind when I’m earning well. But now there’s no bonus. And suddenly it becomes noticeable how much goes toward two people.”
“So when everything is good for you, I’m great. But when things go wrong, suddenly it’s my fault?”
He said nothing. I stood up.
“I see. I’m moving out tomorrow.”
He jerked upright.
“What are you doing? I’m not throwing you out!”
“You don’t need to. I’m leaving on my own. I don’t want to be a freeloader.”
I packed my things for two hours. He hovered around me, trying to say that he didn’t mean it like that, that he was just tired, that he snapped. I stayed silent and folded my clothes into the suitcases. I called a taxi and went back to my apartment.
He texted me for three days straight. Apologized, asked me to come back, promised never to say anything like that again. I didn’t answer. Because I realized one thing: he had never seen me as an equal. To him, I was a convenience that cost nothing as long as everything was going well for him. But the moment things got worse, I became a burden.
And it isn’t about the money. It’s about the fact that from the very beginning he never gave me the right to pay. He brushed me off, laughed, said “don’t be ridiculous.” And then he sent me the bill. Not in money, but in words. He said I was freeloading off him, even though he created that situation himself.
Men who refuse to take money from women often do it not out of generosity, but out of a desire for control. To show who’s in charge. Whoever earns more gets the louder voice. And then, when the moment comes, they pull out that trump card: “I support you.” And the woman ends up guilty, even though she simply accepted the rules of a game he created himself.
Four months have passed. Konstantin doesn’t write anymore. I live in my little one-room apartment, pay €317, save a little bit, and owe nothing to anyone. And you know what? I feel peaceful.
Is it normal for a man with a high salary to refuse to take money from a woman and then later call her a freeloader?
Should a woman insist on paying her share, even if the man refuses and says he doesn’t mind?
Do you agree that men who don’t let a woman pay often do it so they can later use it as leverage?
If your partner said, “You’re freeloading off me,” even though they were the one refusing to take your money, how would you react?