I'd given everything I had. I genuinely couldn't keep going, and all I was asking was for the woman who was my wife, my son's mother, her parents' daughter, to shoulder even a fraction of her own responsibility.
How did that translate, in her eyes, into me not trying hard enough? Into me looking for an excuse to slack off?
I was about to respond when my in-laws' bedroom door opened.
They'd clearly heard every word between me and Wendy. The moment Mrs. Pruitt Sr. stepped out, she fixed me with a look of heavy disappointment：
“Otto, this really is your fault.”
“My daughter is a famous philanthropist. Forget being proud of her, you're actually trying to get your hands on her money?”
Frustration clamped down on my chest, but I kept my voice steady：
“Mom, Wendy's part of this family too. I'm just asking her to think about us a little while she donates. How is that getting my hands on her money?”
“And it's not even for me.”
“Dad's heart condition needs long-term medication. That imported prescription runs over six hundred dollars a box. Your insulin is almost out. If there's no money, I can't afford either of your medications.”
Mrs. Pruitt Sr. waved me off, irritation plain on her face：
“Enough, enough. We know our own bodies better than you do.”
“You're using us as an excuse because you're the one who can't hack it, aren't you? Afraid of a little hard work?”
Mr. Pruitt Sr. let out a cold scoff：
“Exactly. I've never met anyone as selfish as you.”
“The only reason Wendy became a household name in philanthropy is because she donates every last cent of her salary. You want her to keep some for groceries now? You're trying to destroy her reputation.”
“It took her years to earn the public's respect as Saint Wendy. You're her husband. If you can't follow her example, fine. But dragging her down over a few dollars?”
The three of them fed off each other's righteousness, taking turns tearing into me like I was the villain in their story.
Watching them stand there, united against me, something hit me like a blow to the skull. My head cleared in an instant.
After I married Wendy, she told me her parents' health was too fragile for them to live alone back home. She said she worried about them constantly.
So I moved Mr. and Mrs. Pruitt Sr. in with us. All those years, Wendy spent every waking hour on her donations, rushing off to charity galas and fundraising events the second she clocked out.
Meanwhile, on top of scrambling through my own workload, I carved out time to drive her parents to the hospital, get them registered, sit through their appointments, and pick up their prescriptions.
I used my lunch breaks for their hospital runs more times than I could count.
And every single time, Mrs. Pruitt Sr. would take my hand and say：
“Otto, Wendy only has eyes for her charity work. This family is lucky to have you.”
“Without you, your father-in-law and I, two old bags of bones, wouldn't know what to do with ourselves.”
Mr. Pruitt Sr. would nod, gratitude written all over his face：
“Good kid. You've given too much to this family. If Wendy ever treats you wrong, you come to us. We'll set her straight ourselves.”
Even Wendy used to say it：
“Honey, marrying a man as devoted and caring as you is the greatest blessing of my life.”
“I promise, one day I'll make it up to you. I'll love you properly for everything you've sacrificed.”
They sounded so sincere when they said it.
And I believed every word.
So for years, I gritted my teeth and carried it all alone, no matter how exhausting, no matter how grueling.
Because I thought they truly understood me, truly appreciated what I gave, truly needed my help.
I thought that once Wendy's charity work was stable, she'd turn around and see this family. She'd share the weight with me. She'd love me and make it up to me, just like she promised.
