I’ve always considered myself incredibly fortunate, mostly because Ive been so goal-driven in life. By the age of twenty-five, Id managed to save up enough to buy my own flat, all by myself.
No help from Mum or Dad, no relatives chipping inI did it entirely on my own. And when I met the man I fell for, I was bold enough to tell him that I had my own place.
But I made it clear right away that I wasnt about to move into his; we agreed to rent somewhere together, and Id let out my flat so I could start putting money aside for a car.
He seemed fine with it, promised hed soon have enough saved for rent and wed start our life together. Six months down the line, he turned up at my door with a suitcase, telling me hed lost his job and hadnt a penny to his name.
He asked if I could put him up for a while. At least hes got parents to turn to, I thought. No, I didnt let him stay. It felt like he was just using me as a convenient way to avoid making his own way, and honestly, I couldnt accept that. So, in the end, I broke it off.
