“Emily, I’ve been thinking, and I’ve made a decision. My paycheck is my own money. I earned it, so I get to spend it however I want—on things I like, on the car, on helping my mom. We’ll live off your salary. You’re the thrifty one in this family, aren’t you? Always hunting down grocery-store discounts like a pro. So you can handle it.”
I kept scrubbing at the old grease stain baked onto the tile above the stove. I rubbed so hard that my fingernails ached inside the rubber gloves, and the sponge made an ugly, shrill scraping sound. The rag jerked back and forth in my hand, but I didn’t turn around. The sharp chemical smell of cleaner filled my nose, mixed with the stink of scorched gravy—Brian had forgotten to turn off the burner again while moving the stew.
“So it’s your personal money now,” I said slowly, still working at the stain. “Brian, does it not bother you that we have a twenty-year mortgage and Tyler starts school this year? Supplies, uniforms, books… Do you have any idea what decent groceries cost now if we’re not supposed to live on pasta alone?”
“Oh, don’t start,” Brian muttered as he walked past me, his heels thudding heavily against the laminate floor. “You always turn everything into a tragedy. I didn’t say I’d never give you anything. If things get really tight, you can ask, and I’ll think about it. But as a rule, the household budget is on you. You’re so responsible, so obsessed with fairness. Well, go ahead and work your accounting miracles.”
He dropped into a chair at the table and cranked the TV up to full volume. Some idiotic talk show was on, everyone shouting over everyone else, and the noise drilled into my temples almost as badly as the neighbor’s power tools. The people upstairs weren’t exactly helping either—their renovation had been going on for nearly two years, and the steady buzzing of a drill through the wall had become the soundtrack to our slowly collapsing family life.
I wiped my hands on my apron and finally turned to face him. Brian sat there in his favorite stretched-out T-shirt, picking at his teeth with a toothpick, his whole posture saying the discussion was already over. The man who had once been my sweet Brian, the one who swore he would move mountains for me, had hardened into someone else entirely. Now he was Brian, the self-appointed “head of the family,” a man convinced that his wants came first and mine… well, mine would somehow take care of themselves.
“Are you actually serious?” I leaned back against the sink and felt the cold metal through my worn house shirt. “I make about $770 a month. The mortgage takes $385. That leaves $385 for three people. That’s around $110 per person for the entire month. You’re suggesting we feed ourselves and Tyler on roughly three dollars a day?”
“People survive on less,” he replied without even looking away from the television. “Buy grains. Seasonal vegetables. Meat’s not healthy in big amounts anyway—I read that somewhere. Anyway, Emily, don’t dump this on me. Tomorrow I’m going to look at new rims for the car, and I need the money.”
That was the moment I understood he had already arranged everything perfectly in his head. The plan was complete. And in that plan, I was nothing more than a free attachment, expected to maintain the comfort of the great “provider.”