Chapter 1

My husband is unbelievably stingy. Even after my third accidental miscarriage, all he was willing to cook me was plain rice porridge.

I was about to post asking for recipes so I could learn to make postpartum meals when I stumbled on a wildly popular thread:

How rich does a husband have to be before he'll happily spend money on a woman?

The pinned reply had tens of thousands of likes.

If he really loves you, he'll gladly turn himself into your ATM.

My husband and I never talk about money, but the moment he found out I was pregnant with our eighth child, he transferred me $99,000 as a nutrition fee allowance.

The comments were full of snark.

Is your husband some balding old geezer or something? What normal person gets pregnant eight times?

To shut the commenters up, the poster shared a screenshot of a transfer and the profile shot of a man.

Thanks for the concern. Even if I miscarried seven times, I'd still be willing to have his children.

The mockery kept coming, but I was the only one staring at that screenshot and that silhouette.

This peerless husband who transferred her $99,000, and the man who split every bill with me right down to a bag of brown sugar, were one and the same person: my husband, Colin James.

...

The glow of the phone lit up my face. The bowl of yellowish porridge had long since gone stone cold.

A sharp cramp twisted through my lower belly just as Colin walked in, briefcase in hand.

Out of habit, he flipped off the entryway light first, even though I was sitting there in the dark living room.

"Is electricity free now? Leaving the lights on all day, just sitting there spacing out."

He grumbled as he changed his shoes, then walked over to the table and glanced at the untouched bowl of porridge.

"Why aren't you eating? I got up early this morning just to make that for you. It's good for your stomach."

I stared at the gray sweater he was wearing, the collar already starting to pill.

I'd bought a few dollars' worth of yarn last winter to save money, and knitted that thing stitch by stitch over three all-nighters.

It was the silhouette of that exact sweater that had just shown up in Brenda Perez's post.

Right next to that screenshot of a $99,000 transfer.

"I want some brown sugar water. My stomach hurts so much."

Colin frowned.

"Didn't the doctor say a miscarriage is basically like having your period? Don't be such a baby about it."

"A bag of brown sugar costs over ten bucks, and it's full of additives. Drinking it is bad for you."

He paused, then pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"But if you really want it that bad, I'll run down to the corner store and get you a bag."

"Fifteen dollars, same rule as always, we split it, so transfer me seven-fifty."

I watched him open his payment QR code and hold it out in front of me.

Seven dollars and fifty cents.

I had just lost a fully formed baby, and my husband was demanding seven dollars and fifty cents from me for brown sugar.

While another woman, simply because she was pregnant, had gotten $99,000 in nutrition fees from him.

My stomach heaved, and I shoved the porridge bowl away hard.

Colin panicked instantly and hurried to protect the bowl.

"What's gotten into you? That bowl's from IKEA. If it breaks, we'll have to spend money on a new one."

I looked straight into his eyes, trying to find even the faintest trace of pretense.

"Colin, we've been saving up to buy a house for five years now. How much do we have saved by now?"

His eyes flickered, and then he quickly put back on that earnest, heartfelt expression.

"Why are you asking about that? The money's all in my fixed-term account. A little under a million."

"Marian, I know you're down because you just lost a baby, but we have to look ahead."

"Cutting corners now is all so that someday we can have a home in this city."

"Just hang in there a bit longer. Once we buy the house, I'll get you pork ribs every single day."

Empty promises.

It was the thing he said most over these past five years.

I used to believe it. For the sake of that home he kept talking about, I even switched my skincare to a few-dollar baby cream.

I pulled out my phone, opened that viral post, and shoved it in his face.

"Then take a look at this. This sweater, does it look familiar?"

Colin's eyes landed on the screen, and his pupils shrank sharply.

"Why do you spend all day looking at this junk online?"

He snatched my phone away and locked the screen right away.

"Everything online is fake. People just grab some random picture and make up a story. And you believe it?"

"I'm doing this for your own good. Stop reading this toxic nonsense, it hurts a marriage."

He tossed the phone back onto the table, his voice edged with irritation.

"I'm exhausted from working overtime today. I'm going to shower first. Hurry up and drink your porridge, don't waste it."

With that, he ducked into the bathroom without looking back, and even locked the door behind him.

Listening to the sound of running water inside, I just felt cold all over.

He wouldn't even bother making up a halfway decent explanation.

Seven dollars and fifty cents for brown sugar, $99,000 in transfers.

Those two sets of numbers slammed against each other in my head, tearing at my nerves.

Clutching my cramping belly, I slowly sank down to the floor, my back soaked through with cold sweat.