After I delivered the baby, my wealthy father came to visit me in the private recovery suite. He looked pleased, carrying an extravagant bouquet that likely cost more than many people’s monthly rent. With a soft smile, he asked, “Sweetheart, isn’t four thousand dollars a month enough?”
I was stunned. I’d just endured hours of labor—exhausted, sore, and emotionally fragile. “What money, Dad?” I replied honestly.
His smile vanished. His jaw set hard. Behind him, my husband Daniel went rigid, while my mother-in-law, Karen, suddenly focused intently on smoothing the baby’s blanket.
My father turned to Daniel. “I’ve been sending four thousand dollars every month since my daughter married—money for living costs and emergencies. Don’t tell me she doesn’t know about it.”
The room fell silent except for the steady beep of the heart monitor. Daniel’s face went pale. Karen’s hands stopped mid-air.
A cold sensation crept through me. “Dad,” I said carefully, “Daniel manages our finances. I’ve never seen that money.”
My father’s eyes hardened with a familiar, frightening anger. He pulled out his phone and showed me years of bank transfers, each one clearly marked with my name. I stared at the screen, my pulse racing.
Daniel finally spoke, his voice unsteady. “I… I was just handling it. You were busy—pregnant, overwhelmed.”
For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
