Receipt for a 50-50 Marriage

I begged my husband for weeks before he finally agreed to come with me to my prenatal appointment.

The whole time, he just stood there with his hands buried in his pockets, watching me coldly as I handled everything on my own—paying the bills, checking in at the front desk, running around like crazy until I was completely overwhelmed.

The second I walked into the exam room, he vanished into thin air.

And to top it off, he took off in my car, leaving me to take the bus home by myself.

As soon as I got on the bus, my phone buzzed.

He'd sent me a screenshot of a receipt:

[Companionship fee: 50 dollars]

[Round-trip gas: 7 dollars]

[Total: 57 dollars]

There was also a voice message attached.

"Our marriage is strictly fifty-fifty. What does your pregnancy checkup have to do with me? Why should I give up my day off to go to the hospital with you?"

Listening to that icy message, I suddenly remembered the way he once got down on his knees in front of me, begging me to help pay for his education.

I was so angry, I just started laughing.

Fine then. If this was a fifty-fifty marriage, it was time to settle the score!

I didn’t hesitate. I sent Desmond Connerty the money—exactly 57 dollars, not a penny more, not a penny less.

The second he got it, he fired back an “I love you” sticker.

Without changing my expression, I tucked my phone into my pocket and rested my head against the bus window.

Outside, the streets were bright and crowded with people going about their lives.

But inside, I just felt colder and colder.

By the time night fell, I finally made it home—exhausted, hungry, and frozen from the ride.

The moment I opened the door, the warm, rich smell of food hit me.

In the dining room, Desmond and his cousin Janet Connerty were eating steak off my gold-trimmed dinner plates and drinking my treasured bottle of Lafite.

The second Janet saw me, she quickly grabbed a plate of burnt stir-fried vegetables and said sweetly,

“Amy, come try the dish I made for you! I know you can’t handle greasy food while you’re pregnant, so I made you something light.”

Desmond immediately chimed in, all gentle and caring, “Yeah, come on, try it. Janet made this herself. Even I don’t get treated like this.”

I ignored her completely and didn’t bother hiding my eye roll.

Then I noticed the shattered pieces of embossed porcelain scattered next to the sink.

One look and my heart stopped.

Ignoring my eight-month pregnant belly, I rushed over to see what had happened.

The second Janet saw where I was looking, her face went pale. She hurried to explain, “Amy, I’m so sorry! I just thought it was so pretty and wanted to use it to serve you. I never meant to break it.”

That was my handcrafted, gold-inlaid embossed porcelain plate—a collector’s item worth