Stop Spending My Money
The sound of the bank statement hitting the granite countertop sounded like a gunshot in our silent kitchen. Outside, the rain was hammering down on our suburban Atlanta home, but the storm inside was much worse. “Look at this, Sarah.
Just look at it,” Mark hissed, his face flushing that dangerous shade of red I had come to dread over the last two years. “Target? Again?
What could you possibly need at Target that costs eighty dollars?”
I swallowed hard, clutching the dish towel like a lifeline. “Mark, it was diapers. And laundry detergent.
And new socks for Leo because he outgrew his old ones. It’s for the house.”
“It’s always ‘for the house,’ isn’t it?” he sneered, stepping closer. From the dining room table, my mother-in-law, Mrs.
Patterson, let out a sharp, dry laugh. “I told you, Mark. Some women just don’t understand the value of a dollar because they’ve never had to earn one.
High maintenance.”
My stomach twisted. I used to work. I used to be a graphic designer before we agreed—we agreed—that daycare was too expensive and I should stay home with the kids.
Now, that sacrifice was being weaponized against me. “I am not high maintenance,” I said, my voice shaking. “I am keeping this family running.”
Mark slammed his hand on the counter.
“You are draining me dry! Do you know how hard the pressure is at the firm right now? Here is the new rule.
You ask before you spend a single cent. I am done subsidizing your little shopping sprees.”
Then he said the words that broke something inside me forever. “Stop spending my money like it’s yours, Sarah.
It’s my money. You’re just a guest in this house living off my check.”
Mrs. Patterson hummed in approval.
“Finally setting boundaries. Good for you, son.”
I looked at him. The man I married seven years ago.
The man I promised to build a life with. He didn’t see a partner anymore. He saw a leech.
I felt a cold calm wash over me. I gently placed the dish towel on the counter. I didn’t scream.
I didn’t cry. Not yet. “A guest?” I whispered.
“Okay.”
“Where are you going?” Mark demanded as I walked past him toward the hallway closet. “Guests don’t have to do the laundry,” I said, grabbing my raincoat and my purse. “Guests don’t cook dinner.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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