Chapter 2

I married Michael when I was 25. Everyone said I was lucky.

He was easy on the eyes, stood five-ten, and was a tech whiz at a state-owned enterprise. He was soft-spoken and always had a smile for everyone.

The first time my mother met him, she pulled me aside and said, "He's a steady one. You won't have a hard life with him."

At our wedding, after one too many drinks, he put his arm around me and told my father, "Sir, don't you worry. Now that Zoe's with me, I'm going to make sure she lives the good life."

I fell for it.

The first two years of marriage were actually good. He pulled in about 2,600 dollars a month, and I made a little over 1,500 dollars. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough to keep us comfortable.

We rented a two-bedroom place. He'd come home to my cooking, he'd handle the dishes, and on weekends, we'd wander through the supermarket aisles with a cart together.

Then we set our sights on a 960-square-foot flat on the east side. It cost 360 thousand dollars. The down payment was 110 thousand dollars. I put up 70 thousand dollars; he covered the remaining 40 thousand dollars.

The mortgage was 1,400 dollars a month. He suggested we split it down the middle. I agreed.

By the third year, Michael's parents moved in with us. He said his parents were getting on in years and had nobody to look after them back home. I said fine.

With two more mouths to feed, the expenses went up. The grocery bill doubled, the utilities spiked, and the elderly couple's medication ran us over 300 dollars a month.

Michael sat me down to talk strategy. "Why don't we both just deposit our entire paychecks into a joint family account? We can manage everything from one pot."

I said fine. It sounded fair.

But then I noticed his contributions were getting smaller and smaller. It started at over 2,600 dollars. Then it dropped to 2,000 dollars. He said the company had restructured their pay scales, and his take-home pay had taken a hit.

I didn't press him.

Meanwhile, my salary climbed from 1,600 dollars to 2,000 dollars, then to 2600 dollars. Every cent went straight into that account.

He knew about every single raise I got. He'd always say, "My wife's a rockstar." Then, his contribution for that month would drop by another 150 dollars.

I had no idea where that money was going. It never even crossed my mind to ask. I just figured that's how life worked. You earned a little more; you pitched in a little more. After all, we were family.

I'd been wearing that down jacket for five winters. It was black, the cuffs were worn white, and the zipper was temperamental; I had to give it a good yank every time I left the house.

Last winter, I spotted a new one at the mall. It was a camel-colored coat marked down to 260 dollars. I tried it on; it looked good.

Michael was nearby, glued to his phone. "This one's nice," I said. "What do you think? Should I get it?"

He glanced up at the price tag. "Two hundred plus? Your black one still works fine, doesn't it? Let's not throw money down the drain."

I hung the coat back up without a word.

It wasn't until later that I found out that very same month, he'd bought Sophia Hayes a Max Mara coat for 4,000 dollars. I found the receipt tucked away in his suit pocket later on.

While I was scrubbing dishes in my threadbare black jacket, that 4,000-dollar coat was hanging in another woman's closet. The tags hadn't even been snipped yet.

Speaking of birthdays, in seven years of marriage, Michael remembered my birthday just twice.

The first year, he bought me a bouquet of pink roses and took me out for a fancy steak dinner.

The second year, he said he was too swamped and told me "not to get hung up on formalities."

From the third year on, he didn't even bother with the "swamped" excuse.

My birthday is November 17th. Every single year on that day, he was "working late."

On my birthday that fifth year, I came home from work and whipped up a four-course meal and a soup. I set the table and waited for him. I waited until eight o'clock.

Then, he texted me: [I won't be home tonight, got to rush a project.]

I read that message twice. Then I sat down alone.

I poured myself a drink. There were no candles. I took two bites of my steak, then packed the rest into Tupperware and shoved them in the fridge. I washed the dishes. I wiped the table. I turned off the lights.

I didn't shed a tear through the whole thing. I just brought a glass of water to the bedroom, set it on the nightstand, and lay down.

I am thirty now. And not one soul said "Happy Birthday" to me.

He never brought it up later, either.

The next morning, I made breakfast for Michael's parents like usual. I made some pancakes, eggs, and a side of fruit. Michael's mother, Melissa, complained that the eggs were overdone.

"I'll watch it next time," I said.

Nobody knew yesterday had been my birthday.