“And I’m not obligated to report it.”
She snorted and walked deeper into the apartment, like she owned the place.
“What do you mean, ‘yours’?” she drawled mockingly. “You’re married, so everything is shared. And if it’s shared, I have a right to know. I need medicine, his sister needs help, and besides, you should have told me right away.”
The words “should have” sounded particularly loud. I felt a wave of irritation rising inside me, but I tried to keep a straight face.
“I don’t owe anyone anything,” I replied, turning to her. “And my money is my money.”
She stopped abruptly and stared at me, as if she couldn’t believe her ears.
“Look at her,” she hissed. “Got some money and now you’re showing your true colors? You weren’t like this before.”
“Before, I just kept quiet,” I said softly.
“That’s not the same thing!” My mother-in-law threw up her hands and started talking faster, louder, jumping from topic to topic: how hard it is for her son, how she’s worked her whole life for him, how ungrateful I was being.
I listened and suddenly understood clearly: in her mind, this money was already divided up. There was no place for me in this equation…
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