Post-Marriage: Still Supporting His Brother

My husband had just ducked into the bathroom when his phone started ringing. I glanced at the screen and saw it was his brother calling.

A frown creased my brow, but I answered anyway.

"George, why haven't you sent the $10,000 to Mom and Dad this month?" Ross Serrano said. "Mom just asked me about it."

I hung up without a word, but a rush of fury surged through me. My husband stood at the bathroom door, his hands still dripping wet.

I forced a bitter smile. "You make $8,000 a month, right? $3,000 goes to the mortgage, $2,000 to me, and you pocket $1,000 for yourself. You told me you sent $2,000 to your parents, so how did that magically turn into $10,000?"

His lips quivered, his face draining of color. My heart sank, and my hands trembled uncontrollably.

We'd been married for five years, and I'd never once laid eyes on his bank card.

What other secrets was he keeping from me?

After that phone call, I stood rooted to the spot, reeling from the revelation for a full ten minutes. The words "$10,000" echoed relentlessly in my mind.

On Thanksgiving, I had suggested giving my parents $1,000, but George Serrano shot it down, saying we were tight on cash and to hold off.

I believed him, even feeling guilty for bringing it up. My parents comforted me, saying everything they had would be mine one day and telling me not to dwell on it.

I could never have imagined that his idea of being tight on cash meant funneling 10,000 dollars to his parents every month.

"Honey, let me explain..." George stepped forward, reaching for my hand.

I yanked it away, my gaze as cold as ice. "Explain what? That the $10,000 isn't real?"

Memories came flooding back, crashing over me like waves. I'd waffled over a discounted coat for half a month before deciding not to buy it.

Every day at the market, I'd haggle as if my life depended on it over a few bucks, calculating if spending an extra $10 on meat would blow our budget for the month.

And him? What had he been doing all this time?

Tears stung my eyes, my heart feeling like it was being squeezed in a vise, the pain so intense it nearly took my breath away. I clenched my fists, my nails digging deep into my palms.

His face blanched further, and he avoided my gaze. "Ross just got married, and his wife is pregnant—their expenses are piling up. My parents mentioned his low salary, and as the older brother, I couldn't just sit back. They're right. Siblings should have each other's backs."

I leaned against the wall to keep myself from collapsing, the ridiculousness of it all hitting me like a slap in the face. I'd poured everything I had into building our home, while he was dumping money into his brother's never-ending pit.

"How is that $10,000 divided?" I demanded, my stare unyielding.

His lips quivered before he finally confessed, "$8,000 goes to Ross: $5,000 to help with his mortgage, and $3,000 for their living expenses."

All the frustration I had been holding back for five years burst forth, propelling me to slap him across the face. "Is he disabled or something? Why are you funding his wife and child? And what about me? You hand him $8,000 a month and toss me just $2,000? What am I to you?"

Thinking back to my parents' understanding smiles on Thanksgiving, I felt like the biggest fool on earth. Tears streamed down my face, my voice shaking. "What's your real salary?"

"$15,000..." he stammered.

I snatched his phone and scrolled through the bank notifications. After taxes, it was 20,000 dollars.

A cold, mirthless laugh escaped me as I hurled the phone back at his face. "You make $20,000 a month and give me only $2,000? What do I even mean to you?"