Back then, she smiled and tugged my hand. "Maya's always been the most thoughtful—puts those two grown men to shame."

To make shopping easier for her, I set her up with a linked payment account on my card. Two-thousand-dollar monthly limit.

I figured an elderly woman buying groceries and household basics wouldn't need more than that.

But it wasn't just the card.

I pulled up my own order history.

Peanut oil, two jugs—shipped to my in-laws' place.

Premium rice, two fifty-pound bags—same address.

Toilet paper, laundry detergent, even the medicated patches for her rheumatism.

Every single item ordered through my account, delivered straight to their door.

On regular days, the moment a package arrived, she'd send a voice message to the family group chat, loud and cheerful: "Oh my, Maya's spoiling me again! I really shouldn't accept this—don't waste your money next time!"

Then I kept failing to get pregnant.

And day by day, I became invisible to her.

Now this.

So I spend my own money, and I still need her approval? Need her to decide if it was spent "properly"?

She wanted control over my finances too.

The more I thought about it, the more suffocated I felt. I called Alex.

Seven, eight rings before he picked up.

Keyboard clacking in the background. His tone already impatient: "What? I'm swamped—got a pile of reports due."

"Your mom's losing it in the group chat and you haven't noticed?"

I switched to speaker and tossed the phone on the table. "She wants to audit my annual spending. Said if I don't send it, I must be hiding something. Tell me—all these years, the rice, the flour, the cooking oil in that house—when was any of it not paid for by me?"

Alex sighed. "Come on. I thought it was something serious."

"This isn't serious?"

"You know how Mom is. Menopause might be over, but she still overthinks everything when she's bored. She saw too many of those clickbait videos online and got paranoid you're blowing money. She means well—she's looking out for our family."

Listen to that.

This is what men do.

Masters of smoothing things over.

I laughed coldly. "Looking out for us? Looking out for us means putting me on trial in front of every relative? Alex, I'm telling you right now—I'm not sending that bill. If you think your mom's right, then you can start paying the household expenses."

The typing stopped. "Maya, you're being ridiculous. Mom's old. Her mind doesn't turn corners as fast anymore. You're younger, you're educated—why stoop to arguing with an elderly woman?"

"It's a few hundred bucks. Let her talk. You're not going to die from it. Alright, alright—my boss just walked over. We'll talk when I get home."

Beep.

He hung up.

I stared at the black screen, my head throbbing.

So in her son's eyes, his mom is old and doesn't know better, and I'm petty and don't know better.

Only him—stuck in the middle—the real victim here.

That night, Alex came home with a face longer than a mule's.

He threw his briefcase on the couch and yanked at his tie.

"My phone's been blowing up all day. Second aunt, third uncle, my oldest aunt—everyone taking turns. Mom told them you're hiding something. That you must be funneling money to your parents."

I was at the dining table drinking water. I nearly choked.

"Funneling money to my parents? My mom's a retired teacher—her pension's higher than your salary. You think she needs my pocket change?"

Alex waved his hand, irritated, and dropped onto the couch.

"Stop being stubborn. Mom's just curious—she wants to take a look. We've got nothing to hide, so why act like we do? One look won't kill you. But you keep refusing, and now it looks like—you know—like you're protesting too much."

I looked at this man who had shared a bed with me for three years. Not only did he not have my back, he thought I was the one being unreasonable.

I didn't say anything. Just went back to the bedroom.

You can't reason with someone this spineless.

Early the next morning, before I'd even brushed my teeth, someone was pounding on the door hard enough to shake the walls. The second I opened it, Lola bulldozed her way in. She didn't even take off her shoes—just made a beeline for the pile of unopened delivery boxes in the corner.

Riiip.

She tore into a package with her bare hands and yanked out the face towels inside.

"I came to see what you've been buying every single day, all these precious things. I'm checking for Alex so he doesn't get the family savings emptied out by some spendthrift woman!"

I looked at Alex, who had just shuffled out of the bedroom. Not only did he not stop her—he walked over, pulled open the TV stand drawer, fished out a handful of shopping receipts, and handed them to his mom.

"Mom, look at these. Last week's supermarket receipts. Check if anything shouldn't have been spent. I'll keep a closer eye on her from now on."

I laughed—actually laughed out loud.

Fine. You want to audit me? Let's audit.

"Go ahead! Look all you want! Not just last year—this year, the year before, I'll give you everything. And starting today, I'm done managing this household's finances. Whoever wants the job can have it!"

Lola snatched my phone in one grab and plopped down on the couch. She licked her index finger, then jabbed at the screen.

"Oh! Cherries? $299 a box? Is this thing made of gold? You eat it and live forever?"

"Starbucks? Twenty-eight dollars for bitter water? Does Alex print money? You're sitting at home doing nothing and drinking coffee this expensive—you're drinking my son's blood!"

"And what's this? Yoga classes? Two thousand dollars? You learning poses or learning to burn cash? Mop the floor—you'll lose the weight anyway!"

Every line, she lifted her head to glare at me, spit flying. Alex nodded along beside her like a bobblehead. "Yes, yes, Mom's right. The yoga class really isn't necessary. We won't sign up again."

Lola slapped the phone onto the coffee table and announced:

"This can't go on. From now on, Alex's paycheck goes to me. You want to spend money? File a request. A stalk of scallions, a head of garlic—you explain to me exactly how much and why."

I crossed my arms. "And the IVF next month? The deposit alone is $30,000."

I'd been trying to get pregnant for two years with no luck. Quitting my job, staying home to rest—it was all to prepare for IVF.

Lola sighed dramatically. "We've spent so much money and your belly's still flat. I don't think there's any rush to throw more at it. I know a folk remedy—drink enough of it and you'll definitely conceive."

I didn't say another word. Turned around, went back to the bedroom, pulled out my phone, and dialed my former boss directly.

"Hello, Mr. Lambert. That project—do you still need people? Yes. I can start anytime."

Since everyone thinks I'm a reckless spender, fine. I won't spend a dime.

Let's see what kind of life the Finch family can live without me, the "spendthrift woman."

I cut off the supply completely.

When the toilet paper ran out, it got replaced by the stuff Lola bought by the pound at the morning market. Rough as sandpaper—one wipe and it shed crumbs. Press too hard and it'd scrape you raw.

The organic vegetables that used to fill the fridge? Gone. Now it was wilted clearance greens from the supermarket's 8 p.m. markdown bin, and freezer-burned mystery meat that had been frozen since god knows when.

Lola was actually pretty pleased with herself, holding my annual food delivery statement and jabbing at it:

"Look! On food delivery alone, you blew over five grand in a year! That's all gutter oil—eat that and you'll die young!"

She turned and marched straight to the kitchen, chopping vegetables with aggressive thuds, announcing she was making Alex a "healthy, home-cooked lunch."

I glanced at that lunch box and nearly laughed out loud.

Boiled cabbage in plain water, not a drop of oil, with a few dark, blackish slices of fatty cured pork laid on top. She'd brought that from her hometown, calling it "free-range pork," but it was pure fat. Just looking at it made you feel greasy.

Alex started to protest, but Lola shot him a glare. "Food delivery is poison for lazy people! This is how Mom eats to live a real life!"

At three that afternoon, Alex messaged me on WeChat to complain.

He'd just cracked open the lunch box in the company cafeteria, and that rancid, old cured-meat smell hit him immediately.

A coworker leaned over for a look and laughed. "Yo, Alex, that's really going back to basics. What, reminiscing about hard times?"

Alex had thin skin. His face turned purple on the spot.

He couldn't bring himself to eat it. He dumped that whole "loving lunch" into the slop bucket and forced himself through the rest of the afternoon on plain water.

I replied with an "Oh," then pocketed my phone.

Serves him right.

Let his mom straighten him out. Then he'll know who actually understands how to live well.

Early the next morning, I changed into a suit and did a full face of makeup.

The moment I stepped out of the bedroom, I had to hopscotch through a pile of bottles and jars. The living room floor was covered with laundry detergent, dish soap, and toilet paper.

Lola was squatting there with a little notebook, taking inventory, muttering to herself: "This bottle lasted three months—how'd that one run out in two? Must've used too much…"

I stepped over her hoard like it was garbage, without turning my head.

At the company, I handed my resume across the desk.

These past few years I'd been home trying to get pregnant, but my previous project experience was solid, all in black and white, and I'd kept up my certifications too.

The interviewer asked a few technical questions, and I answered without missing a beat.

They made a decision on the spot and gave me an offer.

I have hands and feet. I have a brain and skills. Why should I swallow this kind of humiliation at home?

That night when I got back, Lola was still poring over my annual statement.

She pointed at the makeup and skincare, jabbing the screen so hard it crackled:

"Look at this! Three grand! You buy this watery stuff just to smear on your face? Is your face made of gold? Spending like this—how much is Alex going to have to earn to fill this hole?"

I ignored the spit flying from her mouth.

I tossed my bag onto the couch and shoved my phone in front of her.

"Look carefully."

"From now on, I earn my own money and spend it myself. If I want thousand-dollar skincare, I'll buy thousand-dollar skincare. If I want delivery, I'll order delivery."

"My money. Not your place to manage. If you can't stand it, go back to your own home."