“All done, Mr. Peterson. Here it is,” she placed a hefty folder on his desk. “Everything’s reconciled and signed.”
“You’re worth your weight in gold.” He quickly flipped through the documents. “Stop by accounting. I’ve arranged for your bonus. You can get it in cash from the cashier, as you requested. Now go home and get some rest. You’ve earned it.”
At the cashier’s window, she was handed a white envelope filled with crisp bills. Exactly $8,500. Susan tucked the envelope into a hidden pocket in her purse, feeling a mix of joy and anxiety. This money was her lifeline, her little secret, her hope. Hope that her mother could see the best cardiologist in the city.
Stepping out of the office building, she was met with a cold, drizzling rain. She had to hurry. First to the mall for the china, then across town for the party. She pictured herself walking into the condo, all eyes turning to her, Eleanor giving her a head-to-toe appraisal, and Mike standing beside her with a look that was both guilty and demanding.
“Just get through this evening,” she told herself, hailing a cab. “Just get through it.”
She didn’t yet know that this evening would be the point of no return, after which her life would never be the same. She didn’t yet realize that she wouldn’t have to “get through” anything anymore.
The taxi crawled through evening traffic, and Susan gazed mournfully at the rain-blurred city lights. Droplets streamed down the window, merging into crooked paths that looked like tears. She felt incredibly tired, and it wasn’t just from the stressful workday. An invisible weight of responsibility had been pressing on her shoulders for years. Responsibility for her husband, their home, the mortgage, and the fragile semblance of well-being she worked so hard to maintain.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, a text message. A dozen question marks from Mike. Followed by a short: “Are you kidding me?”
Susan sighed and started typing a reply: “On my way. Traffic. Bought the gift.”
She deliberately didn’t specify which gift to avoid another argument. Better to have an unpleasant surprise in person than a fight over the phone. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, trying to push away the dark thoughts. Another evening, almost ten years ago, came to mind. It was raining then, too, but it had seemed romantic. She and Mike had run under a single umbrella, laughing, as he recited a poem he’d written about the raindrops on her eyelashes. He had been so… alive. Not the apathetic, perpetually dissatisfied man who now demanded her money for expensive gifts for his mother, but an enthusiastic young man who believed in his great future and their shared love.
Where had it all gone? When did his creative search turn into simple laziness, and her love into habit and a sense of duty? Maybe it started after the wedding, when they moved into the condo. Eleanor had taken them under her wing from the very beginning. She would visit almost daily, bringing casserole dishes and offering unsolicited advice: “Susan, dear, that’s not how you iron a shirt. You start with the collar, then the cuffs, then the sleeves.” Or, “Mikey doesn’t like green beans. They give him heartburn. You should make him mashed potatoes, the way I do.”
At first, Susan tried to argue, to set boundaries, but Mike always sided with his mother. “Susan, come on, she means well. She’s more experienced, she knows best.” And Susan would give in. It was easier to agree than to listen to his whining and see the hurt look on her mother-in-law’s face. Gradually, Eleanor became the de facto mistress of their home. She would let herself in without warning while they were at work, rearrange the furniture, and go through their closets. Susan would find her blouses hung on the wrong hangers and her pots and pans arranged in what Eleanor deemed the “correct” order.
When she complained to Mike, he would just brush it off: “What’s the big deal? Mom’s bored in retirement, so she’s finding things to do.” He didn’t see it as an invasion of their privacy. To him, it was care.
Then came the financial demands. At first, they were small requests: “Son, could you pick up my blood pressure pills? I’ve run out.” “Susan, dear, my boots have a hole in them, could you lend me a few dollars until my social security check comes in?” Susan never refused. But over time, the requests became more frequent and insistent, and the amounts grew larger. Eleanor complained about her small pension, rising prices, and appliances that were always breaking down. Mike, feeling guilty that he couldn’t provide for his mother, would meekly give her money… Susan’s money.
“Ma’am, we’re here.” The taxi driver’s voice pulled her from her memories.
The mall. Susan paid and jumped out of the car. The stores were closing in less than an hour. She quickly found the home goods department and selected the very set of fine china with a classic, slightly old-fashioned gold trim that her mother-in-law had once mentioned in passing. Twenty-two hundred dollars. Packed in a huge, heavy box, she grunted as she carried it to the exit.
While she waited for another taxi, her phone vibrated again. This time it was her mother, Carol.
“Susan, honey, am I calling at a bad time?” Her voice sounded, as always, quiet and a little apologetic.
“No, Mom, it’s fine. I just left the store. How are you feeling?”
“Oh, you know. My heart’s been acting up again, blood pressure’s all over the place. The doctor at the clinic says it’s just age, gave me some pills, but they don’t do much.”
Susan felt a pang of anxiety. She knew her mother never complained for no reason.
“Mom, I told you, you need a full workup. A Holter monitor, an echocardiogram, a consultation with a good cardiologist. I made you an appointment at that private clinic for next week, remember?”
“I remember, honey,” her mother sighed. “But it must be so expensive. I feel bad putting you out. You have the mortgage and your own worries.”
“Mom, don’t be silly,” Susan said firmly. “Your health is the most important thing. I’ll find the money. I just got my bonus today. So we’ll pay for everything, don’t you worry.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. You’re such a good daughter.” She could hear tears in her mother’s voice.
They talked for a few more minutes. Susan asked about her dad, their garden, and promised to visit on the weekend. After hanging up, she felt even more resolute. The envelope with the bonus in her purse wasn’t just money. It was her mother’s health. And she wouldn’t let anyone touch it. Not Mike, not his overbearing mother.
A taxi finally arrived. Susan gave her mother-in-law’s address. Another twenty minutes to go. She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror: a tired face, dark circles under her eyes, a few new lines around her mouth. What happened to the carefree girl Mike used to draw in his portraits? She had dissolved into endless reports, mortgage payments, and attempts to please everyone but herself.
“No,” she thought, clutching the strap of her purse where the envelope lay. “Enough.”
Tonight, she wouldn’t let Mike push her around. The china was a perfectly fine gift. Eleanor could buy her own earrings if she stopped draining money from her son’s family. The thought gave her strength. She even sat up a little straighter. She was going to this party not as a guilty schoolgirl, but as a grown, independent woman who had a right to her own money and her own opinion.
As she approached her mother-in-law’s building, she saw a familiar figure at the entrance. Mike. He was standing in the rain without an umbrella, shifting nervously from foot to foot, peering into every approaching car. When the taxi stopped, he rushed to the door, his face contorted with anger. Susan barely had time to get out of the car before he grabbed her by the elbow. She saw a cold fury in his eyes.
“Where the hell have you been?” His voice, low and cracking, cut through the monotonous sound of the rain. “Mom is waiting for her gift, all the guests are waiting, and you’re out having fun!”
Susan froze, one foot still in the taxi, the other on the wet pavement. Mike’s words hit her like a slap. Not “honey, I was worried,” not “you’re soaked, let’s get inside,” but this—crude, humiliating, thrown at her with hatred. The taxi driver, an older man, coughed disapprovingly and turned to his window, pretending not to notice.
“I was working, Mike,” she answered quietly but firmly, pulling her elbow from his grasp. “And then I was buying a gift for your mother. Here.” She nodded at the large box the driver was unloading from the trunk.
Mike shot the box a contemptuous look.
“That’s your gift? That junk? I told you: earrings! I promised Mom a surprise!”
“And I told you: we don’t have money for earrings!” Susan straightened up, feeling cold anger replace her initial shock. “And stop yelling at me!”
He wasn’t listening. His eyes darted frantically over her face, her clothes, then settled on her purse. The purse where the envelope lay.
“Where’s the bonus?”
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