His tone became sly and threatening. “Did you get it? Hand it over!”
“I’m not giving you the money!” she snapped, clutching her purse tighter. “It’s for something else.”
“For what else?” He stepped closer, and Susan smelled alcohol on his breath. He’d been drinking. For courage, probably, while he waited. “For what? New clothes? Lunches with your friends? My mother has waited sixty years for this day, and you’re being cheap over a few pieces of paper!”
“Those pieces of paper are for my mother’s health!” she couldn’t help but shout. “She needs tests, Mike. Serious tests. And you… you want to spend it all on another one of Eleanor’s whims!”
The mention of her mother seemed to push him over the edge.
“Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that!” he roared, his face twisting. “She’s a saint, and your… your mother is always complaining, always sick. Maybe she just needs more attention?”
That was too much. Too cruel and unfair. Susan felt tears welling up, but she held them back. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“You…” she started, but couldn’t find the words. There was a lump in her throat.
“What, me?” he smirked, seeing her state. “I’m telling the truth. Give me the money, Susan. Don’t make this difficult. Mom is waiting.”
He reached for her purse. Susan recoiled, instinctively protecting what was hers.
“No!” That short, desperate cry seemed to be his trigger. He was done asking. He was acting.
With one sharp motion, he yanked the purse from her shoulder. The strap dug painfully into her skin, but he pulled harder. Susan lost her balance and, slipping on the wet sidewalk, crumpled awkwardly to the asphalt. The purse was in his hands.
“Sorry,” he tossed out, no longer angry, just with a kind of detached regret. “You brought this on yourself.”
He quickly opened the purse, fumbled inside, found the white envelope, pulled it out, and stuffed it into his coat pocket. Then he dropped the purse on the ground next to Susan.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said, already turning away.
“Don’t go! We need to talk!”
He practically ran to his old Ford Taurus parked nearby, started the engine, and with a squeal of tires, sped off.
Susan sat on the wet, cold asphalt, watching the receding red taillights of his car. The rain intensified, its cold drops mixing with the tears she could no longer hold back. She wasn’t crying from physical pain, though her knee was scraped, but from the humiliation. A monstrous, all-consuming humiliation. He hadn’t just taken the money; he had trampled on her. Trampled her dignity, her feelings, her hopes.
The taxi driver, who had been watching the scene from his car, finally got out.
“Ma’am, are you okay? Should I call the police?” He offered her a hand.
Susan looked at him through her tears. His eyes were filled with sympathy. She took his hand and struggled to her feet. Her skirt was wet and dirty, her tights were torn, and a scrape was visible on her knee.
“No police,” she whispered. “It’s… it’s fine.”
She picked up her purse from the ground, checked the contents—wallet, phone, keys. Everything was there. Only the white envelope was missing. The envelope that held not her life, but her mother’s.
“Where to? Back where we came from?” the driver asked.
Susan looked up at the lit windows of her mother-in-law’s third-floor apartment. She imagined Mike walking in, Eleanor greeting him, him proudly handing her the envelope, and something inside her broke for good. The Susan who had endured, forgiven, and hoped for years died right there, on that wet asphalt, under the cold October rain.
“Take me to…” she gave her parents’ address. “Please.”
She got into the back seat. The box with the china set remained on the sidewalk by the entrance—lonely and unwanted, just like her attempts to build a family with that man.
As the car drove through the night city, Susan stared out the window but saw nothing. The same image played over and over in her mind: Mike’s face twisted with anger, his hand ripping her purse away, and his parting shot, “You brought this on yourself.”
No, she wasn’t to blame. Her only fault was allowing herself to be treated this way for far too long.
When the taxi stopped at her parents’ house, she suddenly remembered what was really in that envelope. She had been in such a rush leaving work… A faint, almost crazed smile touched her lips. Yes, that was it. She took out her phone and dialed Mike’s number. He didn’t answer. So she sent a short text: “I hope your mom loves my gift. It’s from the heart.”
After sending it, she felt a strange, cold satisfaction. She didn’t know how this evening would end, but she was certain of one thing—Eleanor’s birthday would be unforgettable. For everyone.
Her mother opened the door to her parents’ apartment. Seeing Susan on the doorstep—disheveled, with torn tights and tear-stained eyes—Carol gasped and threw her hands up.
“Susan, what happened? You look terrible! Did you fall?”
“I’m fine, Mom.” Susan tried to smile, but her lips wouldn’t obey. “I just tripped. I’m really tired. Can I come in?”
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