After two months together, we decided to move in. He was living in a spacious 5-bedroom home in Centennial, had a big Chevy truck, a Harley, and often told me he worked installing windows and doors. But when COVID hit, his business suffered, and he began struggling financially. At the time, I was living in a townhouse and in the middle of a long, drawn-out divorce with no end in sight. I knew it was moving fast, but the plan was for me to sublet my townhouse, and together, we'd save money.
In the beginning he was always so sweet and caring, attentive to my needs and those of my children, whom he hadn't yet met. In my mind, it felt like the perfect situation—he even let me decorate the house and bring in my kids' belongings, setting up rooms for both of them. I also prepared and decorated the room next to ours for his daughter.
We had a spare room, which we turned into my art studio. At the time, I had gotten really into pour painting and had started getting good at it. He was always so proud of my work, showing my paintings to anyone who came over. A lot of his friends, as well as mine, still have my paintings in their homes today.
It was easy for me to fall in love with him, and I know I loved him for the potential I saw in him. But because of his unresolved past trauma, he often self-sabotaged, and I found myself getting hurt and forgiving him over and over again.
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