Chapter 3: Stakes and Sacrifice

Because of this, I lost twenty pounds during my postpartum recovery.

The stress gnawed at me—late-night pacing, skipped meals, silent tears behind closed doors. My jeans started hanging off my hips, but no one commented, afraid to poke at the wound they knew was there.

I don’t know if, when the baby turns one, it will also mark the end of my marriage.

There’s a calendar pinned to the fridge, a silent countdown ticking away. Every milestone for the baby feels doubled—joy and dread. Will this be the last birthday we celebrate as a family?

To be honest, I’m not afraid of being without a man. But I have three children.

If it were just me, I could walk away tomorrow. But the stakes aren’t just mine—they belong to three other lives. That’s the weight that keeps me in place.

My oldest son just started college, also studying finance. In this field, without his father’s resources, his road will be tough.

He’s smart, no question, but the game is rigged—connections matter more than talent. I lie awake wondering if I’ve doomed him to struggle, simply because his father might walk away.

My second daughter goes to a private high school that costs nearly $50,000 a year. She plans to study art abroad in the future—without hundreds of thousands invested, she won’t make a name for herself.

She’s got dreams bigger than anything I dared at her age. Her Instagram is full of sketches and museum selfies. I promised her the world, and I intend to keep that promise, no matter what it costs me.

The youngest, an unexpected pregnancy, is also a son. The bills from his first month alone could equal an ordinary person’s annual salary.

He came late, a surprise when I thought I was done with diapers. His colic kept me up for weeks, and each trip to the pediatrician made my heart race—one more bill, one more reminder of how expensive life can get.

Behind me, I also have elderly parents. Last year, a minor cold sent my father to the ICU, costing $3,000 a day. He stayed there for half a year. If it weren’t for my money-tree husband’s willingness to pay, I probably wouldn’t have a father anymore.

It’s a cruel truth: in America, health crises are financial crises. Every time I swipe my credit card for their medications, I thank the universe for Marcus’s checkbook—then resent him for making me depend on it.

All these things mean I can’t leave Marcus.

The door may be unlocked, but I can’t walk through it. Too many people would fall if I pulled the rug out from under our lives. I try not to let the bitterness seep into my voice when I talk to him, but it’s there, humming beneath the surface.

If I could, who wouldn’t want to be the heroine of her own story, able to handle everything without relying on anyone?

I see those women on TV—the ones who make it on their own, who don’t need a man or a bank account with someone else’s name on it. I wish I were one of them, but wishing doesn’t pay the mortgage.

Unfortunately, I’m just an ordinary woman. I didn’t have the brains to get into Harvard or Stanford, nor wealthy parents or brothers, and I have no special talents or lucky breaks.

I grew up in a working-class suburb of Cleveland. My parents put in overtime to keep us afloat, and college was always a maybe. I know how quickly a single bad month can unravel years of stability. I clawed my way to comfort, and I’m not letting go now.

The only thing I could rely on—my beauty—is gone now too.

It faded gradually, the way winter seeps into spring—subtle, relentless. I look in the mirror and see the lines, the tiredness. I miss the confidence I used to feel, the way Marcus’s eyes once lingered on me.

But no one should underestimate a mother’s determination to defend her family. If I can’t move Marcus, then I’ll have to do something about the mistress, Lillian Moore.

This is America—we fight for what’s ours, sometimes quietly, sometimes with claws out. I’ve never been one to start a battle, but I’ll finish it if I must.