Chapter 1

A month after she gave birth, my son's wife pulled out a calculator and said she needed to "settle accounts" with me.

She began. "Before I had the baby, you said you'd cover thirty thousand dollars for postpartum care. I didn't go, so you owe me thirty grand.

"You took care of me for two months, and you lost thirty-three pounds doing it. Based on the rates at weight-loss centers, dropping that much would've cost forty thousand dollars.

"And I let you enjoy bonding time with your grandson. That kind of emotional benefit is priceless, but since you're my husband's mother, I'll give you a discount and call it three hundred and thirty thousand."

She tapped away on the calculator like she was working overtime.

I just stared at the final number, completely stunned.

How did I spend two months helping with everything—paying, cooking, cleaning, taking care of her—and somehow end up owing her four hundred thousand dollars?

Instinctively, I turned to my son.

He wouldn't even look at me. He lowered his head and mumbled, "You raised me for twenty years. Even if you charge thirty thousand a year, that's only three hundred thousand total. So you still owe a hundred thousand.

"But you did give birth to me, so forget it. From today on, we're even."

Only then did it hit me.

They weren't joking. They were cutting me loose now that they'd gotten everything they wanted.

I nodded slowly.

If we were really even, then the house and the car I bought last month no longer had anything to do with you.

*****

I stared at the long string of numbers on the calculator, my face dark, silently counting on my fingers for a good while.

Not because I was bad at math, but because the past two months of running myself ragged after her postpartum care—barely eating, barely sleeping—had left my brain slow and foggy.

My son's wife, Jessica, clicked her tongue impatiently. "Don't bother counting. It comes to four hundred and thirteen thousand dollars. I'll waive the extra three thousand. Just call it four hundred and ten thousand."

Hearing that number, I honestly felt like a complete idiot.

For a moment, I did not know what to say. But old habits from years in business kicked in, and I could not help pushing back. "Jessica, that thirty thousand for postpartum care you mentioned doesn't add up, does it?

"Not long after you got pregnant, I booked postpartum care worth over thirty thousand dollars for you. You were the one who found out, threw a fit, cried, screamed, and threatened to hurt yourself if you had to stay there.

"You forced them to refund the money, and that refunded thirty-plus thousand dollars went straight into your pocket. So how exactly does that turn into me owing you?"

Jessica rolled her eyes slightly. "Fine, I did take the thirty thousand. So what? Taking care of me after childbirth was your responsibility in the first place. How could you even think about having someone else do it?

"And I could just as easily call that thirty thousand a penalty for poor service. I didn't feel pampered at all these past two months. If I had stayed at a real postpartum center, they would've treated me way better than you did."

I was speechless.

Did she seriously say she did not recover well after giving birth? Anyone who came to visit said she looked great—two months in and she looked exactly the same as before pregnancy. That was entirely because of me.

I snapped, "I offered to send you to postpartum care and you refused. You said you wanted to rest at home, so I immediately hired a nanny and a maternity nurse. Did you forget who kicked both of them out?"

Jessica let out a short laugh. "And you think hiring a nanny and a maternity nurse doesn't cost money?"

"You throw money around just because you have some. How much do you think you'll leave us when you're old? How much of a burden do you think you'll be on us then?"

"And besides," she added coldly, "when there's a free one right here, why would I ever pay for help?"

I wasn't even angry. I just felt unbearably wronged when I thought about everything that had happened over those two months.

When Jessica kicked out the nanny and the maternity nurse, she hadn't sounded like this at all.

Back then, she had just given birth and was lying in bed, looking pitiful as she said, "How could a nanny or a maternity nurse really take good care of someone?

"My brother's wife was taken care of by my mom when she had her baby. If people find out I was looked after by hired help, they'll definitely say our relationship is bad—that you and I don't get along."

My son, Andrew Dalton, chimed in right away, "People say the first ten years are on the mom, and the next ten are on the wife.

"If you take good care of Jessica while she's at her most vulnerable, when you're old, she'll remember it. She'll treat you like her real mother."

I didn't think there was anything wrong with having a nanny or a maternity nurse.

But I knew how fragile a woman can be after giving birth. This wasn't the time to argue with her. I had suffered enough myself back then.

I'd been through it before, so I didn't want Jessica to go through it too.

So I dusted off skills I hadn't used in years and took care of her with everything I had.

Every morning at six, I got up to buy the freshest ingredients from the market and cooked when I got back. Then I cleaned the house, served her meals, massaged her, helped her shower and wash her hair.

From morning to night, I was constantly on my feet. I barely even had time to sit down.

When it was finally time to sleep, Andrew would bring the baby—who had slept all day and was wide awake—into my room.

"Jessica doesn't sleep well," he said. "Anyway, the baby's on formula. You can take him."

So I got up every two hours to feed him.

I was so exhausted that I didn't even dare to drive. I took taxis everywhere. Most of the time, the moment I got in the car, I passed out. Once, a driver couldn't wake me up and panicked so badly that he took me straight to the ER.

That was why I lost over thirty pounds in just two months.