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?"