You Still Owe Me
Susan, perhaps its time you go on maternity leave? Margaret said, peering over her glasses. You look absolutely washed out. Pale as a ghost, hands all shaky. And youre well past due, arent you?
Susan glanced down at her trembling fingers wrapped around her mug of long-cold tea. The seventh month wasnt going easy on hermorning sickness hadnt let up, her legs swelled by supper, and she spent all day darting around the shop floor.
But the money, Margaret! What about my wages? Susan shook her head. Maternity pays peanuts. Tom cant manage everything on his own. Just a little longer another month, at least.
Her mother-in-law waved her off.
Youre carrying his son, love. Leave all that to Tom. Let the man sort it. Hes supposed to be the breadwinner, isnt he?
Susan couldnt muster the strength to argue. In a week, she gave inhanded in her notice, cleared out her locker, and left the factory gate with an unfamiliar sense of emptiness.
Those first days at home felt oddno early alarms at six, no mad dash for the bus, no endless standing by conveyor belts. Then, slowly, it got better. She began to sleep properly, stroll through the neighbourhood park, cook proper meals instead of keeping up her relentless diet of cheese sandwiches and crisps. Colour returned to her cheeks, nausea faded, and even her midwife gave a surprised grunt at her next check-upthe blood tests finally looked normal.
Her son arrived in early March, sturdy and very vocal, seven pounds fourteen ounces. Lying in the hospital room, Susan gazed at the tiny, pink face and couldnt quite believethis was her baby, her Sam.
The first year blurred into a mush of sleepless nights, three-hour feedings, endless wash cycles and pacing the floor with bouncing. Susan couldnt recall when she last slept properly, when she ate sitting down, when she had a shower longer than five minutes. Her entire universe shrank to Sam: his crying, his naps, his first giggle, his first tooth. Maternity pay arrivedand evaporated instantly. Nappies, formula once her milk dried up, calpol for colic.
Tom worked, brought home the wages, and Susan felt genuinely gratefulno sarcasm intended. Husband supports the family while she does the mum gig. Just as it should be.
When Sam turned three, Susan finally returned to work. New team, new partner, but her hands remembered the old routine. Her first pay packet in three yearsshe held the envelope, grinning like a teenager. Not a fortune, but hers, and hard-earned. She bought Sam new trainers, herself a long-coveted lipstick, and made Toms favourite roast dinner.
They sat together, Sam swirling his fork around potatoes, Tom chewing his way through half a loaf. Just your standard evening
So, Susan, Tom slid his empty plate aside. When are you going to pay me back?
Susan froze, spoon halfway to her mouth.
Pay you back? For what?
Tom fished his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen, and held it out.
Therelook. I kept track.
On display: a meticulous spreadsheet, dates, amounts, notes. Groceries, bills, nappies, medicines, Sams clothes, winter coat, pram, car seat. Three years, calculated down the penny.
One hundred and eighty thousand pounds, rounded up, Tom announced calmly. Almost two hundred grand, Suze. I carried the family solo for three years.
Susan stared at her husband, hardly recognising the man. Same featuresthe mole on his cheek, the cheeky dimple Sam inheritedbut behind them lurked someone utterly foreign.
Tom, I was on maternity leave, Susan heard her voice from somewhere far away. I raised your son. Our son.
Yes, yes, Tom nodded, prepared for this. And you did brilliantly. But were a team, Suze. In a family, its all fair. You didnt work for three years, I did double-time. Makes sense you pay me back, doesnt it?
Sam squirmed in his chair, asking for cartoons. Susan dabbed his mouth with a napkin, sent him off to the living room.
Ive wanted a new car for ages, Tom helped himself to seconds. So, when do I get my money?
Susan swallowed the bitter lump rising in her throat.
A couple more months. Ill pay you back then.
Tom beamed, pleased with her answer, and launched into office gossip about his new manager and next months work party. Susan nodded where required, topped up his tea, cleared the table. Yet, deep inside, where gratitude for her breadwinning husband used to live, something new took rootcold and sharp. Not hurt, not quite. Contempt. For this man with a calculator for a heart, who had clocked every nappy bought for his son.
A month later Tom reminded her againcasually, between bites.
So, Suze, you got my cash yet?
Susan nodded, eyes fixed on the floor.
Just a bit longer. Soon.
She waited for her day off, when Tom left for work bright and early. Systematically, she packed Sams things: T-shirts, trousers, his favourite stuffed bunny, picture books. Then her ownhardly much after years of marriage. Two suitcases, three bags. The sum of a whole life.
A small flat greeted them with silence. Susan had scrimped and saved every penny from her wages, gone without new tights, somehow scraped together the deposit and first months rent. Sam darted around the empty room, thrilled by the echo, while Susan sat on the bare floor, back against the chilly window-sill, and finally sobbed.
The phone rang precisely an hour later. Tom flashed on the screen, and Susan stared at the vibrating mobile a moment before answering.
Where are you? Tom was on the verge of shouting. I came home, and its empty. Wheres your stuff? Wheres Sam?
Susan pressed the phone to her ear and took a deep breath.
Ive decided to divorce you, Tom.
The silence stretched on the other end, then Tom let out a harsh, bitter laugh.
What? Are you off your rocker?
You said I owe you two hundred thousand, Susan spoke calmly, though her heart thumped madly. Take it to court, then. Ill claim child support. Lets see wholl owe what.
You greedy cow! Tom flew off the handle, and Susan pulled the phone away from her ear. I fed you three years, now its all money, money, money!
Susan hung up and turned her ringer off. The phone kept vibratingonce, twice, thricebut she set it aside and joined Sam sorting toys into the corner. Thered be time to worry and cry, but right now, her son was delighted by their new home, and that mattered most.
The divorce dragged on for three monthshearings, forms, statements. Tom appeared in court with a solicitor and his infamous spreadsheet printed on ten sheets of A4. The judge, a tired woman in her fifties, skimmed through the pages, face unreadable.
So, youre seeking reimbursement from your ex-wife for expenses spent on your shared child? she clarified, peering over her spectacles.
For the familys upkeep, Tom corrected. She didnt work for three years.
She spent three years on maternity leave looking after your child, the judge set the printouts aside. Theres no legal foundation for your claim. Request denied.
Susan sat on her side of the courtroom, watching Toms expression slide from smug certainty to confusion and fury. The judge awarded Susan set child support paymentsToms official salary was laughable, but everyone knew he earned most off the books, and the judge saw through his game instantly.
Tom stormed from court without so much as a glance her way. Susan gathered her paperwork, tucked it in her bag, and headed for the exit. On the steps, she was stopped by Margaret.
Susan, wait.
Susan braced herself for anythingaccusations, tears, shouting. But her ex-mother-in-law stood before her, completely lost.
Im so sorry, Margaret murmured, eyes downcast. I dont know how I ended up with a son like that. Im ashamed of him, Susan. Truly ashamed.
Susan said nothing, at a loss before such unexpected honesty.
May I see Sam? Margaret finally looked up, eyes shiny with tears. Hes my only grandchildI just cant bear to lose him.
Susan paused, then nodded.
Of course, Margaret. I divorced Tom, not you. Come by anytime. Ill text you the address.
Susan headed home, feeling the first stirrings of a new chapter in her life.
