My espresso machine cost more than my first car. That was probably my first warning sign.

I was 40 years old when I bought it—a $2,400 Italian machine with brass fittings and a steam wand that could theoretically heat milk like a professional barista. My girlfriend at the time, Rachel, watched me unbox it with the kind of look you give someone who has just made a decision that will alter the trajectory of your relationship. She was right to worry.

The Romance

Rachel loved coffee. She loved it casually—a latte in the morning, nothing fancy. We’d been together for three years. But I had been rebuilding my identity around coffee for fourteen years. And my new espresso machine wasn’t just a machine. It was a statement. It was art. It was obsession.

I spent two weeks dialing in the grind. I recalibrated the water temperature daily, tracking it with obsessive precision. My Galaxy Watch monitored my cortisol levels (which spiked to 92 BPM whenever a shot pulled slightly underextracted). My Xiaomi scale tracked my weight, which jumped to 195 pounds from all the milk-based drinks I was testing.

Rachel asked if I wanted to get dinner. I said I had to test a new bean origin first. She asked if we could go away for the weekend. I said I was expecting a shipment from Ethiopia.

Then came the Tuesday when she asked: “Do you love that machine more than you love me?”

I laughed. It was a joke. Obviously.

But the way she said it—that careful, quiet way—told me she wasn’t entirely joking.

The Failure

I can point to the exact moment the machine became less important than our relationship. It was four months later, at 3 AM on a Saturday. I was re-sealing the group head gasket on the espresso machine for the third time that week. Rachel appeared in the doorway with a look I’d never seen before. Not anger. Worse. Resignation.

“I think I’m going to move out,” she said.

I still remember my immediate thought: “But I’m so close to perfecting the pull pressure ratio.”

I didn’t say it out loud. But I thought it. And somehow, she knew I thought it.

Why I’m Telling You This

Rachel moved out two weeks later. And for about a month, I was devastated. Truly. I missed her deeply. We had been good together. And I had chosen an espresso machine over my relationship.

But here’s the interesting part: I kept the machine. Even after she left, I kept it. And I used it every day. And I didn’t become happier. I didn’t become more fulfilled. I just became someone who had an expensive espresso machine and no one to share coffee with.

I’m 40 now. Rachel is getting married next month. To a man who drinks instant coffee, and who, by all accounts, thinks that’s perfectly fine.

My Galaxy Watch shows my resting heart rate is finally steady—79 BPM. My Xiaomi scale shows 187 pounds. The stress and obsession have lifted.

I still use the espresso machine. I still pull shots carefully. But now I do it because I enjoy it, not because I’m trying to prove something to myself. Or to Rachel. Or to anyone else.

The machine didn’t ruin my romance. My priorities did. The machine was just the easiest thing to blame.

Imagine what else I’ve been blaming the wrong things for.