The tea hit my face before I fully understood that my husband had actually thrown it. One second, Daniel was standing across our marble kitchen demanding twenty-eight thousand dollars for his mother’s “once-in-a-lifetime European tour.” The next, scalding liquid was running down my cheek and neck while he screamed, “Wire the money right now or get out of this house!” I didn’t scream.
That unsettled him more than tears would have.
I pressed a cold dish towel against my skin and stared at him. His mother, Vivian, sat at the island in a cream suit, calmly scrolling through photos of Paris hotels as if her son had only spilled his drink.
“Don’t be dramatic, Claire,” she said. “You earn enough. Family makes sacrifices.”
I had heard that sentence for seven years.
When Daniel’s business failed, I paid the mortgage. When Vivian needed dental implants, I covered the bill. When Daniel wanted a new SUV because his colleagues were “starting to notice,” I transferred the deposit.
He called it partnership.
Vivian called it my duty.
But the Europe trip was different.
