My son looked up at me, his voice small and careful.
"Mommy, am I not going to get fruit again this month?"
My heart ached. I reached out and stroked his head, too choked up to speak.
To everyone else, I was the pampered stay-at-home wife with a twenty-thousand-dollar monthly allowance, living a life of luxury.
But only I knew the truth. That twenty thousand wasn't money. It was a leash.
Every grocery run had to be logged. Every piece of clothing required approval. Even a $9.80 bottle of soy sauce meant smoothing out the receipt, snapping a photo, and sending it to Irvin for inspection.
One second too slow, and I'd get an earful.
One missing receipt, and my son's expenses for the following month would take the hit.
I let out a bitter laugh. When would this so-called twenty-thousand-dollar life ever end?
The next afternoon, I went to pick up Tommy Abbott from preschool. The moment I reached the entrance, his teacher, Cynthia Finch, stopped me.
"Mrs. Matthews, Tommy's meal fee for this month still hasn't been paid. This is the third reminder. Could you please take care of it today?"
A few other parents lingered nearby. At the words "meal fee," their eyes drifted toward me.
The smile on my face froze. I forced myself to nod.
"Of course. I'll pay right away."
I immediately sent Irvin a message:
Tommy's meal fee hasn't been paid this month. The teacher brought it up again today. Can you transfer me $680 so I can pay it now?
After I sent it, there was no reply. I stood outside the preschool, my palms slowly growing damp with sweat.
Ms. Finch glanced in my direction. She didn't say anything, but the look alone was enough to make my face burn.
Nearly ten minutes later, Irvin finally responded:
$680? A kid's meals cost that much? Fine, I'll pay, but send me the receipt first.
I typed back frantically:
It's a standard fee the preschool collects. It covers the whole semester. There's no receipt.
The next second, my phone rang. Irvin's impatient voice came through the speaker.
"Grace, you get twenty grand a month for household expenses. That's not enough for you? Now you need extra money just to feed the kid? And there's no receipt? How is there no receipt for a legitimate payment?"
I held back my anger and tried to explain.
"Every single expense comes out of my own pocket first, and then I submit it to you for reimbursement. That twenty thousand sitting in the bank account? I can't touch it. I have two hundred dollars on me. Anything even slightly over budget, I have to come to you."
"The teacher's waiting. Just transfer it to me first. I'll figure out a way to get them to issue a receipt."
Irvin exploded.
"What kind of attitude is that? You and the kid eat my food, spend my money, and now you have the nerve to raise your voice at me? So what if the twenty grand isn't in your hands? It still gets spent on you two! Look at this. A kid's meals alone cost six hundred and eighty dollars. You and that boy really know how to burn through cash!"
Money, money, always about money.
Our son's basic expenses, and in his mouth they became some unforgivable crime.
Just yesterday, I'd seen his sister post on Instagram, showing off a ten-thousand-dollar bracelet Irvin had bought her. And today he was nickel-and-diming me over $680.
I was shaking with anger, but for Tommy's sake, I had no choice but to swallow my pride and beg.
"Whatever the case, just transfer the money first. The teacher's already asked multiple times."
Two seconds of silence on the other end. Then his voice came back, cold as ice.
"You want my money? Fine. Get the teacher to issue a receipt first. Otherwise, forget it."
He hung up without a shred of mercy. I stared at my phone, my eyes stinging.
"Mrs. Matthews, are you ready to pay?"
Under Ms. Finch's expectant gaze, I wanted to disappear.
"Ms. Finch, would it be possible to get a receipt first?"
The moment the words left my mouth, the parents who had been quietly watching began to whisper among themselves.
