“Transfer six hundred thousand to Mom today. Claire, please don’t start with all your questions.”
Ethan stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding his phone as though the decision had already been made.
A message from his mother glowed on the screen:
“Son, don’t delay. People are waiting.”
I set my cup down.
“What people?”
“The contractors. Mom needs to renovate her apartment.”
“Do you have an estimate?”
He let out a heavy sigh.
“Here we go.”
“What do you mean?”
“This obsession of yours with documents, receipts, and estimates. Mom needs help, and you’re interrogating me.”
I was forty-two.
Ethan was forty-four.
We had lived together for eleven years, and I knew that tone perfectly.
First, he spoke calmly.
Then he became irritated.
After that, his mother joined in.
And in the end, things usually turned out the same way: I gave in simply to bring peace back into the house.
As if summoned, Margaret appeared from the living room.
She was a small, neatly groomed woman with the expression of someone who had always known exactly how everyone else ought to live.
“Claire,” she said sweetly, “why turn everything into a problem? It isn’t as if we’re asking for millions.”
“Six hundred thousand is not a small amount to me.”
“I’m not saying you’re unwilling to help. I’m asking what the money is specifically for.”
“For the renovation!” Ethan snapped.
“All right. Then we’ll arrange it as a loan.”
My husband turned sharply toward me.
“As what?”
“As a loan. Your mother can write a promissory note.”
Margaret looked so horrified that one might have thought I had asked her to pawn a family heirloom.
“A note? For me?”
“Yes.”
“To my own son’s wife?”
“To the person I’m transferring six hundred thousand to.”
Margaret pressed a hand to her chest.
“Ethan, leave it. I knew she would say something like this. Someone else’s blood will always be someone else’s blood.”
There it was.
Her favorite line.
When they wanted my money, we were family.
The moment I asked a question, I became an outsider.
Ethan glared at me.
“Could you behave like a normal wife just once?”
I said nothing.
That money had come to me after my father died.
Shortly before his death, he had called me over and said:
“Claire, whatever happens, keep something for yourself. Don’t put your whole life into one shared wallet.”
At the time, I had been offended.
I thought he simply didn’t trust Ethan.
Now I was beginning to understand that perhaps my father had only been better at reading people than I was.
I picked up my phone and opened the banking app.
The money sat in a separate account.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll transfer it.”
Ethan relaxed at once.
He even smiled.
“There. You can avoid making a drama when you want to.”
Margaret’s expression softened too.
“I always say, the secret is knowing how to speak to a woman.”
I looked at her.
“I need to raise my transfer limit. I’ll do it in the bedroom.”
“Make it quick,” Ethan said. “Mom is supposed to stop by the neighbor’s.”
Margaret slipped on her coat.
“Helen is waiting for me downstairs.”
A minute later, the front door closed.
I sat on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hand.
The screen displayed the confirmation button.
One tap was all that remained.
Then a voice floated in through the open window.
Our bedroom faced the courtyard, and the bench near the entrance stood directly beneath it.
I heard Helen ask:
“Well? Did she give it to you?”
Margaret laughed.
“Where else would she go?”
My finger froze above the screen.
“Ethan will wear her down,” Margaret continued. “She’s soft. She’s spent her whole life terrified of looking like a bad person.”
Helen asked, “What if she demands the money back later?”
Margaret laughed again.
“Let her demand it. She’ll transfer it without a contract. I’ll simply say it was a gift.”
My hands turned cold.
“But are you really going to renovate the apartment?”
For a few seconds, there was silence.
Then Margaret answered:
“What renovation, Helen? Sophie needs the money. It’s for a down payment. She’s getting married, and young people need help.”
Sophie was Ethan’s niece.
“Does the daughter-in-law know?”
“Of course not!”
Their laughter rose through the open window.
“She should be grateful Ethan still lives with her. No children, never much of a beauty, ordinary salary—and she carries herself as if she were a millionaire.”
I sat perfectly still.
Strangely, I didn’t feel wounded.
It was as though each cruel word was not cutting me open but clearing away a cloudy film that had covered my eyes for years.
“Does Ethan know the money is for Sophie?” Helen asked.
Margaret replied:
“He knows what matters: his mother would never advise him badly. I told him Claire needs to be put in her place. Once she hands over the money, she’ll understand who is really in charge of this family.”
That was when I closed the banking app.
No transfer.
No hesitation.
No regret.
In my notes, I typed:
“Do not transfer six hundred thousand.”
Then I returned to the kitchen.
Ethan was pacing between the window and the table.