“That’s what good wives do,” he added gently, squeezing my hand. “They invest in their family.”
So I agreed. I used my grandmother’s money to buy a car outright—$20,000, paid in full.
For the first couple of weeks, Harry drove me to work every morning.
Then his mother started needing rides.
First for groceries. Then the salon. Doctor visits followed. Bible study on Wednesdays. Lunches downtown. Each week, the list grew longer, until my car had quietly become Stephanie’s personal chauffeur service.
At first, Harry still took me to work—but detours crept in.
“Mom needs me to stop by first.”
“I’ll pick you up after her appointment.”
Before long, I was back on public transportation, standing at crowded bus stops in the rain.
I couldn’t stop picturing Harry behind the wheel of my car, his mother in the passenger seat, laughing as if I didn’t exist. What hurt most was knowing I’d paid for that car with the last thing my grandmother ever gave me.
One morning, I arrived at work twenty minutes late after the bus broke down. That evening, I came home tired and damp from walking in the drizzle. Harry was sprawled on the couch, watching TV.
“How was your day?” he asked without looking away.
“The bus broke down. I was late.”
He nodded. “Wow… that’s rough.”
“Maybe tomorrow you could take me to work?”
“Can’t,” he said. “Mom has three errands.”
I stood there for a second, hoping Harry would hear himself. Hoping he’d finally look at me and understand what he was doing.
He never did.
When I eventually gathered the nerve to address it seriously, he let out a tired sigh, as if I were making a big deal out of nothing.
“I have real errands to take care of, Cara,” he said. “I can’t be your personal driver like you’re some teenager needing a ride to school.”
“But it’s my car,” I said quietly. “My grandmother left me that money—”
“And I’m the one who knows how to drive,” he cut in. “What am I supposed to do, let the car sit unused while you take the bus? That makes no sense.”
My eyes burned, but I refused to let him see me cry. “It just feels like—”
“Like what?” he snapped. “Like I’m looking after my mom? The woman who raised me?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and said nothing more. I didn’t bring it up again.
But the humiliation didn’t end there.
The breaking point came one Saturday afternoon.
The three of us were heading out together. I walked toward the passenger side without really thinking—more from habit than expectation. Still, a small, foolish part of me hoped things might be different this time.
Harry reached the car first and opened the front door.
I stepped closer.
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