Chapter 25 - One Hundred Dollars Short
The argument began over one hundred dollars.
Which was almost funny.
Almost.
I was reviewing our account when I noticed Nick’s personal checking balance was lower than expected.
“Did you spend a hundred dollars Saturday?”
He froze.
That was enough.
My pulse spiked instantly.
“Nick.”
“Yes.”
“On what?”
He rubbed his jaw.
“It’s not what you think.”
I stood.
“Never say that sentence.”
“You’re right.”
“What did you buy?”
He hesitated.
And suddenly I was back in the old kitchen.
Empty savings.
Pawn slips.
Lies.
My body remembered before my mind could reason.
“Tell me now.”
“I gave it to someone.”
“Who?”
“A guy at work.”
“For what?”
“His daughter needed asthma medication.”
I stared.
“What?”
“He was short until payday.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Nick looked embarrassed.
“Because I knew you’d say we should discuss anything over fifty dollars.”
“Yes!”
“I know.”
“So you hid it.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You hid it.”
Nora began crying upstairs.
Nick closed his mouth.
I went to her.
My hands trembled while I lifted her from the crib.
This was ridiculous.
One hundred dollars.
But trauma did not care about amounts.
When I returned downstairs, Nick was sitting at the table.
“I screwed up.”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t gambling.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t stealing.”
“I know.”
“But I hid a financial decision because I thought the reason was good enough.”
I looked at him.
There it was.
The old machinery.
Smaller.
Quieter.
Still dangerous.
“I wanted to help him,” Nick said.
“You could have.”
“I knew you’d probably say yes.”
“Then why hide it?”
He looked ashamed.
“Because I wanted to feel like I could make the decision myself.”
That answer hurt less.
And more.
We brought it to counseling.
Dr. Park did not let either of us escape.
“Anna,” she said, “did Nick violate your agreement?”
“Yes.”
“Was the violation equivalent to stealing your maternity savings?”
“No.”
“Does your nervous system know that?”
I laughed bitterly.
“Apparently not.”
Then she turned to Nick.
“Why is autonomy important to you?”
“Because sometimes I feel like a teenager asking permission.”
“Is Anna requiring permission?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I think I’m still punishing myself.”
There it was again.
Punishment.
Control.
Fear.
We revised the system.
Each of us received an equal discretionary amount monthly.
No explanations required.
If Nick wanted to give his entire discretionary budget away, fine.
If I wanted to spend mine on shoes, fine.
Shared money remained shared.
That evening, Nick transferred the one hundred dollars back from his next discretionary allocation.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
He looked at me.
“You’re not leaving?”
I exhaled.
“No.”
His shoulders dropped.
“But this matters.”
“I know.”
“And I’m allowed to be upset without it meaning our marriage is ending.”
“I’m learning that.”
“So am I.”
He came closer.
“Can I hug you?”
I nodded.
We stood in the kitchen holding each other.
Not because everything was perfect.
Because it wasn’t.
Maybe that was the first truly adult version of our marriage.
A mistake happened.
It was named.
Nobody lied about its size.
Nobody inflated it into apocalypse.
Nobody minimized it into nothing.
May you like
We repaired it.
Then we continued.
