Two years.
I cooked for his mother, bought medicine for his father, pressed his sister's interview clothes.
But when my grandmother was lying in a hospital bed, he wouldn't even lend me a car.
Because Marie had a contract to sign.
I hung up. In a downpour like that, a cab was almost impossible to find.
I waited forty minutes at the roadside before one finally came that would take me to the county town.
The traffic was brutal. The caregiver called me three times on the way.
The last time, she was crying.
"Miss Swanson, please hurry. The old lady keeps calling for you."
I said, "I'm almost there. Almost."
But I was still too late. By the time I reached the hospital, Grandma was already under a white sheet.
The caregiver stood in the doorway, her eyes red.
"Before she went, she said you were busy with work. Not to rush you."
I dropped to my knees on the floor.
The gauze on my hand scraped the ground, a pain that went straight through me.
But I couldn't feel it anymore.
When I was little, no one looked after me. Grandma sold vegetables to put me through school.
In winter her hands split open and bled, and she still tucked a hot boiled egg into my schoolbag.
After I started dating, she asked me once.
"That family, do they treat you well?"
I said yes. I didn't want her to worry.
Now, thinking back, I never even got to tell her one last honest thing.
After the funeral, I went back to the Weiss home.
No one was in. On the coffee table sat the pastries Marie's tearoom had sent over.
Phyllis couldn't bear to throw them out. She'd even wrapped them in cling film.
I walked into the bedroom and pulled out my suitcase.
I didn't have much, really. Phyllis didn't like a woman keeping too many things.
Clothes could fill half a closet. Skincare got one shelf. No more than three pairs of shoes.
She said it was the rule. Made it easy to pack now, at least.
I took out that book, the Twenty-Four House Rules, and went down it line by line, marking each one again.
Rule One: breakfast on the table before six.
Two years. Seven hundred and thirty times. Billed at the going rate for an hourly breakfast service.
Rule Two: the younger generation handles the whole family's laundry.
Two years. Hand-washing, pressing, and dry cleaning billed separately.
Rule Seven: family shame stays in the family.
So every time they humiliated me, I swallowed it.
Rule Sixteen: Weiss family matters come first.
So my work, my injuries, my grandmother's life, all of it could wait.
On the last page, I wrote one line.
"I've kept the house rules to the end. Now it's your turn to keep the contract."
I laid it all out in the entryway together: the itemized list, the transfer records, the wedding cancellation slip, and a copy of Grandma's death certificate.
The keys went on top.
In the evening, Irvin came home.
The first thing he said walking in was, "Kayla, is dinner ready?"
No one answered.
Changing his shoes, he noticed one slot in the shoe cabinet was empty.
My slippers were gone.
The kitchen was cold. The living room was cold.
Phyllis sat on the sofa, her face dark.
"She's still not back? Call her right now. Look at the state of this house."
Irvin dialed my number.
Powered off.
Then he finally saw the documents in the entryway.
The list of debts, the wedding cancellation notice, and Grandma's death certificate.
And last, the copy of the Twenty-Four House Rules.
After every line, an amount and a date in my handwriting.
His fingers froze.
His phone buzzed. A text from the wedding company.
"Hello, Mr. Weiss. Ms. Kayla Swanson has canceled all wedding-related services. The refund will be returned to the original payment account."
Right after it, a bank alert popped up. I'd transferred him the cash value of the engagement ring.
The note was just one word.
"Even."
Then a system message came up on his messaging app.
"Kayla Swanson has removed you from the wedding planning group."
I'd changed his contact label to: "Debtor, Irvin Weiss."
Irvin stared at those words, the color draining from his face.
From this moment on, to me he was no longer a fiancé. Only a debtor.
