Chapter 1

"Sell the apartment," My mother-in-law, Claire Carter, stood by the hospital bed, staring straight at me.

My hand froze around the insulated lunch jar.

I asked, "Claire, what did you just say?"

"I said, sell that apartment of yours." Her voice was low, but every word hit me like a punch. "Jamie's surgery is going to cost about 270 thousand dollars. If you sell your place, that should cover it."

On the bed, James Carter leaned against the pillow, his face sallow, his eyes fixed on me the whole time.

He didn't say a word.

But he didn't stop his mother either.

"Claire, that apartment was mine before we got married." I said.

"So what if it was?" Claire cut me off. "He's your husband. Are you really going to let him die?"

I looked at her, then at James.

He still said nothing and only turned his face toward the window.

Eight years.

I'd been married to this man for eight years.

Eight years of splitting everything down the middle. Utilities, HOA fees, even the travel costs when we went back to his hometown for the holidays. Everyone paid their own way.

He had never seen anything wrong with that.

But now that he was sick, his mom stood there like she had every right in the world, telling me to sell my home to save him.

All of a sudden, I wanted to laugh.

I said, "Mom, wasn't this whole split-the-bill setup your family's rule in the first place?"

"That was before." Claire glared at me. "Jamie's sick now, and you're still keeping score?"

"I'm not the one keeping score." I set down the lunch jar, my voice calm. "You are.

"Fine.

"Then let's count every last cent."

James and I met through a blind date.

I was twenty-four then, two years into my job as an accountant at an international company. He was twenty-seven, an ordinary employee at a small firm. He looked decent enough and spoke politely, so my first impression of him wasn't bad.

On that date, he told me, "I'm big on fairness. If we end up together, let's split everything fifty-fifty. That way nobody takes advantage of anybody."

At the time, I thought that sounded pretty good.

I wasn't the kind of woman who wanted to live off a man. I could make my own money. If we split things, we split things. Fair was fair.

We dated for a year, then got married.

The wedding reception was small. He said there was no point wasting money on a big event, and I agreed. We split the reception costs and wedding photos, and even bought our own rings.

My mom wasn't happy about it. In private, she told me, "That guy is cheap. You're gonna suffer for this later."

I didn't take it seriously.

I thought it meant independence, not stinginess.

The apartment we lived in after marriage was mine. My parents helped with the down payment before the wedding, and I spent three years paying off the mortgage on my own. It was fully paid off right before we got married.

When James moved in, all he brought was one suitcase.

"The apartment is yours. I don't want to live here for free, so I'll pay you 500 dollars in rent every month." He said it with a completely serious face.

I hesitated, but in the end, I took the money.

I figured he had a point. It seemed fair.

Our first year of marriage was decent enough.

We each handled our own paycheck, split utilities and upkeep at the end of the month, and when it came to food, we either ate separately or took turns paying. Everything was calculated down to the cent.

Back then, I even thought it was a good thing. At least we wouldn't fight over money.

That changed the winter I came down with a high fever.

My temperature hit 103.1 degrees. My whole body felt heavy and weak, and I didn't even have the strength to get out of bed. I lay there aching all over, my throat feeling like it had been scraped raw.

I called James and asked him to bring me some medicine.

He said okay.

Half an hour later, he came home.

I heard him change his shoes, then heard his footsteps coming into the bedroom.

James said, "Got the meds." He set the plastic bag on the nightstand.

I struggled to sit up, but he didn't help me.

I had to brace myself against the bed and sit up on my own, then reached for the medicine.

He held out the receipt in front of me, "Fever meds were 11 dollars, cold medicine was 6 dollars, 17 total. Send me half."

I stared at him.

I was burning up with a 103.1-degree fever, too weak to get out of bed, and he stood there asking me for 8 dollars because he'd spent 17 on medicine.

"Honey," My voice was hoarse. "I feel awful right now."

"It's not hard to send money," He took out his phone, "Just scan it."

I looked at his face, trying to find even the tiniest sign that he was joking.

There was none.

He was dead serious.

I said nothing, picked up my phone, and sent him 8 dollars.

He accepted it, told me to drink more hot water, then walked out of the bedroom and went to the living room to play video games.

That night, I lay in bed alone, listening to the game sounds from the living room and his occasional bursts of laughter.

The fever had me half out of it. I woke up twice wanting water, but the cup by my bed was empty.

I called his name twice. Either he didn't hear me, or he heard me and ignored me.

In the end, I dragged myself up and held onto the wall as I made my way out for water.

When I passed him, he didn't even look up. His eyes stayed glued to the screen while his fingers flew across the keyboard.

"What are you doing?" he asked casually.

"Getting water." I responded.

"Oh."

That was it. One word.