“Victor!” her mom called out.
Her father, Victor, emerged from the living room and gave his daughter a long, careful look. He was never a man of many words, but he always saw and understood more than he said. He didn’t ask anything, just frowned and pulled his old house robe tighter around himself.
“Of course, honey, come in. Am I flustered? I’ll put the kettle on. Chamomile tea, you need to calm down.”
Susan went to her childhood bedroom, which had remained almost untouched since she got married. The same desk by the window, the same bookshelves with her favorite childhood books, the same bed with the plush coverlet. She sat on the edge of the bed and only then realized how badly her hands were shaking. She was home, safe. Here, no one would yell at her, humiliate her, or forcibly take what was hers. Here, she was loved just for being herself. The thought brought a fresh wave of tears, but these were different. Not tears of despair, but of relief.
She sat like that for maybe ten minutes until her mother came in with a steaming cup of tea.
“Here, drink this, you’ll feel better.” She sat beside her and gently stroked Susan’s hair, just like when she was a little girl. “Do you want to talk about it? Was it Mike?”
Susan nodded, taking a sip of the fragrant tea. The warmth spread through her body, calming the tremors inside. And she told her everything. About the constant demands from her mother-in-law, about Mike’s “creative search,” about her bonus, about the fight in front of the building. She spoke for a long time, her words tumbling out, sometimes breaking into sobs. Her mother listened in silence, her eyes filled with a pain as if she were living through it all with her daughter.
“And he just took the money and left,” Susan finished, feeling drained and empty. “Left me sitting on the asphalt.”
“What a…” Carol started, but couldn’t find the right word. “And you? Are you hurt?”
“My knee hurts.” Susan looked at the scrape. “But that will heal. What’s in here…” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Probably never will.”
Her father came into the room. He silently handed Susan a bottle of peroxide and a cotton ball.
“Clean that up,” he said curtly. His face was grim, his eyes dark. While Susan tended to her wound, he sat in the old armchair across from her.
“I never trusted him from the start,” he said in a low voice. “Too smooth. An artist… His only real job has been living off you. I kept quiet because you chose him. I thought he’d grow up, get some sense… He didn’t.”
“Victor, not now,” Carol said gently. “She’s already hurting.”
“No, let her listen,” her father cut in. “You put up with this for seven years, Susan. Seven years of letting him and his mother walk all over you. For what? For a mortgage on a condo that you pay for yourself? For his ‘delicate artistic soul’?”
Her father’s words were harsh but true. Susan knew it. She had asked herself the same questions hundreds of times, but always found excuses: “He’ll change,” “But we’re in love,” “It’s just a rough patch.”
“I don’t know, Dad,” she whispered. “I guess I was just afraid of being alone. Afraid to admit I’d made a mistake.”
“You will never be alone,” Victor said firmly. “You have us. This house is your house, and no one, you hear me, no one gets to hurt you.”
He stood up and left the room. A minute later, Susan heard him talking to someone on the phone in the hallway. His voice was quiet, but it had a steely edge.
Susan finished her tea and looked at her mother.
“Mom? What about your tests? He took the money.”
“Honey, forget the money!” Carol hugged her. “You’re what’s important. We’ll manage. We’ll figure something out, borrow if we have to. Money isn’t everything.”
But Susan already knew they wouldn’t have to borrow. She remembered how she’d rushed to leave work. Mr. Peterson had hurried her along so she could make it to the cashier before it closed. She had grabbed the first white envelope off her desk, the cashier had put the money inside, and she, without looking, had stuffed it in her purse, leaving a second, identical envelope on her desk.
“Mom?” She looked at her mother, a spark in her eyes that hadn’t been there for a very long time. “I think I know how we can pay for your tests and teach Mike and his mother a lesson.”
She told her mother about the two envelopes. About how the one left at work contained the referrals for the tests and the consultation with the cardiologist, which she had printed out that afternoon to give to her. And also, her short note to herself: “Mom’s heart. Don’t forget.”
“You think he didn’t look inside the envelope?” Carol asked doubtfully.
“I’m sure of it,” Susan smirked. “He was too furious and in too much of a hurry to make his mommy happy. He grabbed the first envelope he saw and took off. It never occurred to him that I might have put something else in there. To him, I’m predictable, obedient Susan, who always does what’s expected of her.”
She stood up and walked to the mirror. A tired, worn-out woman looked back at her. But there was something new in her eyes. Resolve. A cold, ringing resolve.
“That’s it, Mom. No more,” she said to her reflection. “No more obedient Susan.”
She picked up her phone and looked at the message she’d sent Mike: “I hope your mom loves my gift. It’s from the heart.” He still hadn’t replied. Probably busy celebrating. Well, that would make the finale all the more interesting. She pictured Eleanor’s face when she opened the envelope in front of all her guests. She imagined her shock, her fury, her humiliation. And for the first time in years, she felt no pity for her mother-in-law or her husband. She felt no guilt, only an icy calm and the anticipation of justice.
She would go back to that condo. Not to apologize, but to pack her things and start a new life. A life where no one would humiliate her.
“Susan, maybe you shouldn’t?” her mother asked anxiously. “They… they could do something to you.”
“They won’t,” Susan shook her head. “Because I’m not afraid anymore. Not at all.”
She called the same taxi service and gave Eleanor’s address.
“Where are you going?” Carol asked, frightened.
“To the party,” Susan grinned. “It wouldn’t be right to miss such an important family celebration. Especially when such heartfelt gifts are being given.”
The party at Eleanor’s condo was in full swing. About twenty guests, mostly her retired friends and distant relatives, were crowded into the small living room, which had been converted into a banquet hall. The table was laden with salads, hot dishes, and homemade pickles. The air was thick with the smell of food, perfume, and a faint whiff of alcohol. The birthday girl herself, radiant in that same maroon dress, presided at the head of the table like a queen on her throne.
Mike burst into the apartment like a whirlwind, breathless and a little pale, but with a triumphant glint in his eyes.
“Mikey, finally!” Eleanor exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Where have you been? And where’s Susan?”
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