Chapter 3: The Cost of Staying

Frank, my husband, felt sorry for our daughter. He said since I was retired and had nothing better to do, I should help out for a few years. Plus, with Savannah’s pitiful pleas—I just couldn’t say no. So I came.

Frank packed my suitcase himself, stuffing in my favorite sweater and a box of oatmeal cookies. “She needs you,” he’d said, his voice rough but his smile gentle, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Looking at Savannah now, I was at a loss for words. What kind of life is this? What are you even getting out of it?

I reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, my heart heavy for the little girl who once wanted a wedding just like Cinderella’s, with a cake bigger than she was.

I couldn’t help but ask, “He earns a lot, but you don’t get any of it? He keeps the accounts so tight—not a cent more for you? Even if you were just roommates, this isn’t how you’d do things.”

The words came out before I could stop them. My voice shook with disbelief.

Savannah just ignored my questions, answering instead with practiced seriousness: “Ethan says it’s important for women to be independent. Even though we’re married, we’re still individuals, responsible for our own share. I think he’s right, and I agree. He treats me as an equal, respects me, and pushes me to be better.”

She said it like she was repeating something she’d been told over and over. But I caught the tiniest flicker of doubt in her eyes—just for a second.

I reached over and touched her forehead. “Are you okay?”

She laughed and batted my hand away, but her laugh sounded hollow, like she didn’t even believe herself anymore.

How many times had Ethan spun this story to her to make her agree to all of it? Is this really how a couple should live? Is this what independence in marriage is supposed to look like? If so, what’s the point of getting married at all? Why have kids? If you want to be independent, wouldn’t it be easier to just live alone and spend your own money as you please?

I thought about all the years Frank and I had scraped by, sharing every burden and every little joy. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned.

“What’s the point of a marriage like this?” I couldn’t help but ask, my voice soft, almost pleading. I wanted her to see herself the way I did, to remember what partnership really meant.

Savannah’s patience snapped. “Whether it has meaning or not, I know for myself! You don’t understand, and you don’t need to!”

Her eyes flashed, and for a second, I saw the stubborn teenager she used to be—slamming doors, rolling her eyes at everything I said.

Then she seemed to realize how harsh she sounded and quickly softened. “Mom, I worked so hard to marry Ethan. I just want to have a good life—please don’t make this harder than it already is.”

She squeezed my hand, her voice barely above a whisper. I could feel the heaviness of her choices pressing down on both of us.

I honestly worried about her. No matter how I tried, I just couldn’t understand why my daughter was so deeply attached to this way of living.

I remembered the way she used to talk about Ethan, her eyes lighting up with hope and excitement. Now that hope seemed to have faded.

Maybe I’m just old and can’t keep up with how young people think these days. I really can’t understand it.

I stared at the faded floral wallpaper, feeling every one of my sixty-three years settle on my shoulders.

I insisted on leaving. Savannah wouldn’t let me go, her eyes shining with tears she tried to blink away. She pleaded, “Mom, I know you don’t get it, but please, just help me a little longer. Don’t leave yet. I’ll talk to Ethan—maybe he’ll back off.”

She looked so small, so lost, I couldn’t bring myself to say no. My heart ached for her, even though every part of me wanted to walk out.

I thought, I knew Ethan wouldn’t budge. But seeing my daughter’s tear-streaked face, my resolve melted. Fine, I’ll wait a bit longer.

I sighed and brushed her hair away from her cheek. “Alright, honey. I’ll stay. For you.”

I really didn’t expect much. I went back to my room and started packing, just in case I needed to leave at a moment’s notice.

I folded my clothes neatly, stacking them in my suitcase. I kept my phone charged and my shoes by the door, always ready.

Not long after, Savannah came in and told me everything was resolved—I didn’t have to pay Ethan.

She burst in, trying to sound upbeat, her smile a little too wide. “It’s all settled, Mom. You’re good to stay.”

I asked her how she’d convinced him. Savannah just waved it off, telling me not to worry.

She fiddled with her sleeves, looking everywhere but at me. “Don’t worry, Mom. I handled it.”

I agreed to stay, for her sake. But I warned her, “Living like this isn’t a long-term solution.”

I tried to sound firm, but I knew she probably wouldn’t listen. Some lessons you just have to learn yourself.

She waved me off and left. I wasn’t sure she’d heard a word I said.

She disappeared down the hall, her shoulders slumped, already carrying too much for someone her age.

For a few days, things were peaceful.

The house slipped into a quiet routine. I spent my days rocking the baby, folding laundry, watching sunlight crawl across the hardwood. For a moment, I almost let myself hope things might get better.

But then March ended, and April began, and everything changed.

The air inside the house felt thick, heavy, like a storm was coming. Even the birds outside seemed quieter than usual.

One morning, while brushing my teeth, I noticed all the toothpaste, shampoo, body wash—every last thing in the bathroom—was gone. I called out to Savannah to ask about it.

I stood in the doorway, toothbrush in hand, staring at the empty shelf like I’d just checked out of a hotel and housekeeping had cleared me out.

She looked startled for a second, then quickly said, “I thought the old stuff wasn’t very good, so I tossed it. Haven’t had time to buy new yet. Mom, just wait a bit, I’ll get it now.”

She rattled off her excuse so fast, barely glancing at me. I could tell she was making it up as she went along.

She hurried out and soon came back with new supplies. But I couldn’t help noticing how cheap everything looked—all off-brand stuff I’d only ever seen at the dollar store. The toothpaste barely foamed at all. I grumbled as I squeezed out a big glob. “Savannah, why’d you buy this junk?”

I held up the tube, squinting at the label. It looked like something from the clearance bin at Family Dollar, not what you’d expect in a family bathroom.

Savannah answered with confidence, “The expensive stuff is full of chemicals. This is better for you.”

She sounded like she was quoting some blog post, but I wasn’t buying it.

What kind of sense does that make?

I rolled my eyes, but let it go. I’d learned to pick my battles.

After brushing my teeth, I went to the kitchen for breakfast. There was only a bowl of plain oatmeal on the table.

The kitchen still had a faint whiff of cinnamon, but there was no butter, no brown sugar, no berries—nothing to dress up the gray mush in my bowl.