Chapter 3The Price of My Life: Billing My Mother-In-Law

My physical recovery went alright, all things considered.

Not because Martha took good care of me, but because I pushed through it myself.

On the day the baby turned one month old, David suggested having a family dinner to celebrate.

I said fine.

At the restaurant, Martha held the baby, basking in the compliments from a crowd of relatives.

"Martha, you're so blessed. Look how healthy your grandson is."

"David's done well for himself, finding such a good wife."

Martha laughed and said, "Yes, Mia is a good girl, just a bit too frivolous with money sometimes. But young people, you know, they'll learn."

Frivolous with money.

I sat at the very edge of the table.

I paid for this entire dinner.

The formula, the diapers, the utilities for the past month—I paid for all of it.

The groceries during my recovery, my own medication—I paid for it.

And I was "frivolous with money."

I didn't argue. I picked up a piece of food, chewed it twice, and swallowed.

That night, after clearing the table and seeing everyone out.

David was in the living room playing video games. Martha was in the bedroom with the baby.

I was alone in the kitchen, washing dishes.

By the time I got to the third plate, I stopped.

Today was my birthday.

Nobody had mentioned it.

In our first year of marriage, David remembered and bought me a lipstick.

The second year, he forgot. When I brought it up, he said, "We'll celebrate another day." That 'another day' never came.

The third year was today.

The baby's one-month celebration.

Everyone remembered the baby turning a month old. No one remembered my birthday.

I put the plate in the drying rack. Dried my hands.

Went out to the balcony to bring in the laundry.

Folded it, put it in the closet.

I did these things every single day.

Today was no different.

Two weeks later, on a quiet afternoon while the baby was sleeping, I was reviewing my bank statements. Our expenses had been high that month, and I wanted to balance the books.

And then I saw a transfer.

Three months ago. From my and David's joint account.

Two hundred thousand dollars.

Recipient: Sarah Hayes.

Memo: "Down payment."

I stared at that number for thirty seconds.

Two hundred thousand dollars.

For Sarah's down payment on a house.

From our joint account.

I scrolled further back.

This joint account was opened after we got married. Martha had suggested, "It's easier to manage if the family's money is pooled together."

At the time, I thought it made sense. Let the mother-in-law handle the finances; less for me to worry about.

My dowry—the four hundred and eighty thousand dollars my parents had given me—was deposited into this account.

David's family had offered a five hundred thousand dollar "bride price." My parents received it, kept twenty thousand as a token gesture, and returned the remaining four hundred and eighty thousand, plus some of their own money, back to me as my dowry.

Four hundred and eighty thousand dollars.

I kept scrolling.

Eight months ago. A transfer of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Recipient: One of David's cousins. Memo: "Loan repayment."

What loan?

Four months ago. A transfer of eighty thousand dollars. Recipient: An investment firm. Memo: "Investment capital."

Who invested it?

I scrolled some more.

A smattering of smaller transfers—five thousand, eight thousand, three thousand... all sent to Martha's personal checking account. Added together, it easily surpassed forty or fifty thousand.

I closed the banking app.

Opened the calculator.

200 + 150 + 80 + 50.

Four hundred and eighty thousand.

Exactly four hundred and eighty thousand.

Down to the last penny, it matched my dowry.

I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

The screen was bright. The numbers glowed.

My dowry. Not a single cent was left.

The baby stirred in his crib beside me.

I locked my phone.

Placed it on the nightstand.

Walked into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and took a sip.

My hands weren't shaking.

My heart wasn't racing.

But a string snapped inside my head.

The string labeled "Family."

Things my mother-in-law had said lined up in my memory—

"Pooling the dowry together is for the good of this family."

"We're all one family, there's no 'yours' and 'mine'."

"What does it matter who holds onto the money?"

It mattered a great deal.

Because when she held onto it, it vanished.