“Buy it, Mom,” I said. “You worked all week for that money.”
My mother was silent. When we got home, she cautiously asked my father:
“Robert, can I keep a small part of my salary this month? I need a new coat.”
My father didn’t even look up.
“Not this month.”
“But my old coat is torn.”
“I said no.”
My mother didn’t say another word.
That night, I cried into my pillow. I felt that my father treated my mother like a servant. She worked from morning until night, yet she had no right to spend her own money.
Over the years, there were many similar incidents. My mother wanted to travel to the coast with her sister, but my father refused. She wanted to replace our old kitchen table, but my father said there was no money for it.
Even when my mother bought herself a pair of shoes for her birthday, my father took the receipt and stared at her for a long time without saying a word. My aunt witnessed the scene.
“Margaret, this isn’t normal,” she said after my father left the room. “You work, but he controls your entire life.”
My mother simply whispered:
“Nothing is as it seems.”
I became angry.
“Then what’s really going on? He takes your entire salary and doesn’t even tell you what he spends it on.”
My mother looked toward the closed bedroom door.
