The second he left, Mom calmly wiped her tears and snapped:
"That necklace cost three million dollars. The most expensive thing he ever gave me, and it's not even on the inventory."
Wow. Even furious, she was stunning.
All these years, I'd thought Mom only cared about love, not money.
Once she'd let it all out, she grabbed my hand. "Sweetie, how do you even know about your dad's assets?"
"Billions, really? How do I know nothing about this?"
Of course she didn't.
For twenty years she'd stayed home, a model wife and mother, never once asking about his business, letting him arrange every part of our lives.
If Dad said east, she never went west.
The only thing she ever cried about was him neglecting her, being gone all the time.
These last few years, with him barely home, her temper had only gotten worse.
The madwoman in the attic was always a man's making.
Following the comments, I pulled out my phone and brought up a few pages.
"Look. That no-name company he invested in at the start of the year? It went public, a huge IPO. His forty-six percent stake is worth around 1.2 billion."
Mom's mouth fell open. She couldn't get out a word.
"Add the two other hot tech companies, a dozen-plus properties, and an offshore trust, and conservatively, he's worth north of three billion."
I dug up the latest financial news.
"As of last month, he's officially the richest man in the city."
Mom sank into the couch, dazed.
"It's marital property. You're entitled to half."
Her eyes lit up, then clouded again.
"Ever since I turned forty, your dad's been getting bolder. But he never once mentioned divorce."
"This new girl got him to say it outright. She must have something. Can I really get that much?"
I steadied her by the shoulders. "Don't worry, Mom. As long as you keep playing the part, it's a lock!"
She sighed. "But sweetie, what's the point of money without love? When I was with him, I never thought about money at all."
I understood her. When she married Dad, he was just an ordinary office worker. He made his first real money off an investment from my grandfather.
But my hopeless-romantic mom didn't get it: a man's love was sometimes just a measure of how useful you were to him.
That other woman. Hmph. I'd deal with her in my own time.
"Mom," I coaxed, "your daughter already got into Yale. Business school tuition is brutal. There's a lot I want to do, and all of it takes money."
"There's no love left anyway. So all those years of your youth, everything you gave up, he should pay for it. In cash."
Mom blinked those big innocent eyes and nodded, half-understanding.
The comments sighed. [Queens get the bag.]
[With that face, she could've gone to Hollywood. She wasted her youth on a deadbeat, and now he's gaslit her out of even wanting the money.]
[Being a lovesick fool will wreck you!]
I nodded along, cheering her on. "See? Just those few lines and Dad couldn't even look at you! Keep up that act, Mom. We’ve got this.!"
Mom sighed, lifted her phone, and checked her reflection. "True. I really am a stunning older woman."
When Dad came back, he set the new agreement gently in the dead center of the coffee table, as if that made it fairer.
Mom had rehearsed in front of me the day before, and now she was brimming with confidence.
She wore the white strapless dress Dad liked best and flipped through a couple of pages.
I caught the numbers out of the corner of my eye.
Hah.
Fifty million more, plus two apartments.
Against his three billion, it was nothing.
Even the comments were outraged on our behalf.
[That's it? Did he get rich by being a cheapskate?]
[He still has no idea his wife and kid know exactly how loaded he is!]
[Man's addicted to lowballing people.]
I faked devastation, rushed over, and closed the folder. "Dad... can we not talk about this right now? I'm leaving for school soon. We won't get many more chances to be together, just the three of us. Mom cooked a whole table of your favorites by hand. She pricked her fingers doing it. Mom does so much for this family, I just..."
His eyes went wide.
Mom was the pampered daughter of a wealthy family, trained in dance. She kept our home spotless and kept herself beautiful, a living statue you'd find in a Paris gallery.
The one thing she couldn't do was cook, and Dad always complained about it.
Later, after enough fights, she stopped cooking altogether.
Even once she'd mastered it, she only cooked for me, out of spite.
Mom froze for a second, then caught my cue and ran with it.
She touched her fingertips lightly. "It's true. You work so hard, and still you came here to sort out the agreement."
She bowed her head, wounded.
"I wasn't a good wife, back then."
She sat at the table and ladled him a bowl of soup. "When you were first starting out, you worked so late. The clam soup I made was too fishy for you to even swallow."
A single tear dropped into the bowl.
"After the company took off," her voice quavered, "even at home, the only ham in the fridge was molded over. The one thing that made you happy was eating out at Michelin places with me."
"You drank so much you ended up with a perforated stomach, and I couldn't even make a decent broth to settle it. I made you bleed. All I could do was sit by your hospital bed. You were so sick that time. I stayed three days, cried three days, prayed three days. Thank God you woke up."
"You've had it so hard all these years. So maybe I just don't deserve much. Fifty million is plenty. I'm content."
The comments laughed out loud.
[With cooking like that, she should've just poisoned him and taken the inheritance!]
[Honestly, impressive the daughter made it to adulthood.]
