Chapter 3

For our first Christmas as a married couple, Ethan suggested we spend the holidays apart.

"But my parents want to see you," I said.

"I can go to your parents' place," he said, scrolling through his phone on the couch without looking up. "But on three conditions."

"What conditions?"

"First, you pay for my flight. Second, I won't pay for a single thing while we're there. And third, the most important one..."

He finally looked up, his eyes dead serious. "You have to pay me a mental compensation fee."

I thought I had misheard him. "A what?"

"A mental compensation fee."

He put his phone down and started counting on his fingers. "Going to your house means I have to socialize with your parents. I have to smile, make small talk, and listen to them ask when we're having kids. It’s a massive drain on my mental energy. Market rate for that kind of labor is $100 a day. Five days is $500."

My jaw dropped. I couldn't speak.

"Of course," he added generously, "if you come to my family's house, I'll pay you the same rate."

"Ethan," my voice shook, "we are married. Visiting family for the holidays is about showing respect and spending time together. And you're talking to me about a mental compensation fee?"

"Even married people are individuals," he grumbled. "Chloe, can you stop being so emotional? I'm trying to have a logical conversation with you."

In the end, neither of us went to each other's family homes. We spent Christmas apart, each flying back to our own parents.

My mom called me on Christmas Eve. "Where's Ethan, sweetie?"

I lied and said he had to work overtime.

After hanging up, I buried my face in my pillow and sobbed.

For the first time, I felt like this marriage was a terrible mistake.

But I still didn't ask for a divorce.

I naively thought that maybe once we had a child, everything would change. Maybe becoming a father would soften him.

I was so incredibly stupid.

The second year, after months of begging, I finally dragged him to my parents' house for the holidays. Those five days were absolute torture.

He kept a scowl on his face the entire time. When my mom put food on his plate, he coldly snapped, "I can do it myself."

When my dad tried to strike up a conversation about sports, he gave dry, one-word answers.

When relatives came over, he locked himself in our room to play video games.

On the day we left, my mom secretly slipped a Christmas card into my hand. Inside was $500 in cash. "Chloe," she whispered, "does Ethan... not like us?"

I forced a tight smile. "No, Mom. He's just quiet."

On the flight back, Ethan suddenly turned to me. "How much cash was in that card?"

"What?"

"The card your mom gave you." He stared at me. "Technically, we should split it. I was there, too."

I pulled out the envelope. Sure enough, there was $500.

"That's $250 each," he said instantly. "PayPal me."

I transferred the money. My heart felt like it had been shattered into pieces.

He checked his phone, saw the transfer, and leaned back in his seat with a satisfied smirk. "Next time we go to your parents' place, make sure you have my mental compensation fee ready beforehand."

I looked out the window at the passing clouds. Somewhere deep inside me, something snapped.