Chapter 1
I made more than 400 thousand dollars a year, but with my pregnant wife, I insisted on keeping everything strictly fifty-fifty.
In my mind, marriage meant two people handling their own. Just because she was carrying a baby didn't mean she got a free pass.
Seven months along, and she still squeezed onto the subway every morning, commuting as if nothing had changed. Her lunch was a two-dollar cup of instant noodles, eaten at her desk.
I didn't see the problem. We were independent. We both had our own money.
If she were tired, she could cut back on spending somewhere else. She could figure it out herself.
It all seemed perfectly reasonable to me. Hell, I was proud of how logical I was.
Plenty of guys I knew got bled dry by marriage, but not me. I stuck to my guns.
It wasn't until our baby was born that she handed me a document.
I opened it, and my blood ran cold.
*****
Karina came home that night with heavy footsteps, like she was dragging something behind her.
I was at the dining table, working on a steak I'd had delivered from that place downtown. Medium-rare, still bleeding a little on the plate. It was a hundred and nine bucks.
She glanced at me but didn't say anything. She walked into the kitchen and, with the kind of ease that comes from doing something a thousand times, tore open a packet of instant noodles.
The kettle hummed, and pretty soon that fake, salty smell filled the apartment.
I frowned. "You know there's a fan in there."
"Forgot," she mumbled, coming out with a disposable bowl. Her belly was huge now, round and tight as a balloon.
She sat down across from me and started eating. She was slurping loudly.
I paused with my knife in the air. "Karina. We've talked about this."
She looked up, lips shiny with grease. "I'm hungry."
"If you're hungry, eat something decent." I pointed at my steak with the knife. "Your money, your choice."
She dropped her eyes back to the noodles. "I need to save it for the appointments."
"We're splitting the appointments," I corrected her. "It's our kid. We share the responsibility equally. That's fair."
"Michael, I spend three hours on the subway every day standing. I squeezed in like a sardine."
"That's your choice. Take a cab if you want. You can pay for it yourself." I took a sip of wine. "It's in the prenup. Personal expenses are personal."
"I'm pregnant," she said quietly.
"I know." I glanced at her belly. "But that doesn't mean one of us gets to drain the other dry. Marriage is a partnership, not a charity."
That was my rule. It was also why I was making four hundred grand by thirty.
I had rationality and precision, no unnecessary emotional costs.
I'd seen too many guys get chewed up by marriage, destroyed by their own families. Not me.
I stuck to my principles. I stayed true to myself.
She didn't say another word. She finished her soup, drained the bowl as if she was checking off a box on a list.
"Prenatal checkup tomorrow at nine," she said, standing up and tossing the empty cup in the trash. "Seven eighty-seven. You owe me three ninety-three."
"Send me the receipt. I want to see the breakdown."
"Okay." She nodded and headed for the bedroom.
There was no anger or fight. Everything clicked along like a well-oiled machine.
I was genuinely satisfied with this arrangement. This was marriage done right, clean lines, full transparency. There were no blurred edges, no confusion about money.
I cut my steak, feeling content.
My phone buzzed. It was a text from my mom: [Son, Karina's pregnant. It's hard on her. Can't you show a little warmth? Stop being so cold.]
Here we go again. I typed back: [Mom, this is how our marriage works. It's fair. It's modern.]
[Modern? You mean selfish.]
I turned off my phone. It was useless talking to her. People from her generation never understood boundaries.
What they called love was emotional blackmail.
And I'd never let myself be blackmailed. Not now. Not ever.
*****
The next morning, I woke up half an hour early. I ran three miles on the treadmill and worked up a good sweat.
That was my ritual. Self-discipline was the key to freedom.
Karina was up too, leaning over the bathroom sink, dry heaving. The sound made me wince. Honestly, it was rough.
When I got out of the shower, she was already at the table. Two slices of plain white toast were in front of her.
My breakfast was nutritionist-approved. I had a vegetable salad, two boiled eggs, and black coffee.
"Shouldn't you eat something with more nutrients?" I said, peeling an egg. "Toast is empty carbs."
"I'll throw it up anyway. It's a waste of money." She picked at the edge of her toast.
"It's your money to waste. Who cares?" The words came out before I thought about them.
As soon as I said it, I knew it sounded off. But that was how it was.
She made four grand a month. It was not bad at all. She had plenty to live on, even to live well.
If she chose to eat instant noodles and plain toast? That was on her.