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I’m dying in my own filth.
Paralyzed head to toe, rotting in this nursing home bed, reeking of piss and shit.
My only visitor? My daughter. The one who’s hated me for twenty years.
She stares down with disgust and laughs.
“You know what, Mom? Back at NYU, you only sent me 200$ a month. So now?” She waves
a receipt. “I’m buying you the cheapest urn with that same two hundred.”
She leans closer, whispers:
“Next life? Don’t be such a cheap bitch to your own kid!”
Then she’s gone.
I try to explain–but only wheezing comes out.
In the end, I died in an extreme agony.
Even at my funeral, everyone tears me apart.
“Only cared about money. Starved her own daughter through college. What a vicious
woman!”
They all believe I was a heartless monster.
But the truth?
I sent her three thousand every month!
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It turns out… My “honest” husband caught it–kept twenty–four hundred, only gave her six
hundred, and even told her I cut her allowance.
Then he used MY money to bankroll his side piece and their cozy little second family across
town!
Gasp-
When I open my eyes again, I was reborn to the day I’m about to send my daughter first payment.
“Babe, just Venmo me the cash and I’ll send it all to our daughter in one go.”
Ugh, there he goes again. My husband’s voice, all familiar but full of it.
I play along, tell him “okay.”
Instead I was moving every last dime to my account.
No way you’re getting a single, fucking cent this time.
Not only that, but I also want you such an asshole, to spit out every last cent you took from me in your previous life, with interest!
“Babe, just Venmo me the cash and I’ll send it all to Naomi in one go.”
My husband Crane Holloway strolled out of the kitchen wiping his hands, flashing that dopey “good guy” smile he’d perfected over the years.
“Our girl just got to school–she’s gonna need a million things. I’m throwing in an extra 2 thousand so she doesn’t have to penny–pinch.”
I stared at this man I’d loved for twenty years. This man I thought was Mr. Reliable incarnate.
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My chest felt like someone was jabbing it with a thousand tiny knives.
If I hadn’t literally died and come back, I never would’ve spotted that split–second glint of calculation lurking behind his eyes.
Last lifetime, it all started with this exact moment–the very first allowance payment.
Every single month after that, he’d pocket twenty–four hundred bucks for himself.
He’d tell me Naomi said campus life was pricey, that two thousand wouldn’t cut it. Not wanting our daughter to stress, I’d bumped her monthly allowance up to three thousand without him even asking.
Then he’d turn right around and feed Naomi a completely different story: that I was the one bitching about her spending, that I’d only agreed to cough up six hundred. “Your mom’s just wired that way,” he’d say with a sigh. “Cut her some slack. Dad’ll slip you extra on the down–low when he can.”
Playing us both like fiddles.
Making me think my daughter was some ungrateful brat. Making my daughter see me as some penny–pinching ice queen.
And him? He’d pocket the difference and bankroll his side piece and their bastard kid without losing a wink of sleep.
I looked at Crane’s face–that whole “World’s Best Dad” act–and felt my stomach turn.
Choking down the rage crawling up my throat, I nodded. “Sure. Three thousand.”
“That’s my girl! See, you’re the one who really gets what our baby needs.” Crane’s grin stretched wider, every wrinkle around his eyes screaming jackpot.
“Oh, and hey babe–can you shoot me another five thousand from your checking account?”
He rubbed his palms together, putting on this whole helpless routine.
“Look, with Naomi just moving out, we’ve got all these social things to deal with lus I need
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some new fall gear… I’m pretty tapped out right now.”
God, I’d heard this excuse a thousand times.
This had always been how our finances worked.
I was a mid–level manager at a regional utility company–the family’s only source of income.
Crane? Ever since his factory downsized like fifteen years ago, he’d been Mr. Unemployed. Sorry, excuse me-“stay–at–home husband.”
My salary card, my savings, every last cent–all “managed” by him.
Every month I’d keep pocket change for myself and wire him everything else.
He’d say men should handle the money–it was the natural order of things.
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He’d say I was way too swamped at work to deal with boring household crap.
And I bought it.
Like a complete moron, I bought it for over a decade.
Looking back now? I was basically playing Russian roulette with my life–totally clueless the gun was loaded.
“Fine.”
I looked at him and let that one word drop, flat as a stone.
Crane’s whole face lit up like he’d just won the lottery. He thought I was still the same pathetic Evelyn who’d jump when he said jump.
He reached out to pull me into a hug.
I stepped aside.
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His arms grabbed nothing but air. His hands hung there frozen, and that smile melted right
off his face.
“What’s your problem? I slaved over dinner and you won’t even let me touch you?”
I didn’t even glance his way. Just walked over to the couch and grabbed my phone.
“No problem. She’s my kid. I’ll send her the money myself.”
