Nice Rich Husband by Monet Ayala

I felt small. That’s the only way I can describe it. Small. Pathetic. Less than. Her words rang in my head like an alarm I couldn’t turn off as I drove, trying desperately to just focus on the road. She had said it so casually, so airily, like she hadn’t even given it a second thought.

“I just don’t understand how some women do it,” she had said, sipping her Rose, her bracelets jangling as they slid down her thin forearms. “I can’t imagine going back to work so soon after giving birth. It’s just plain wrong.” She set her wine glass down on the table and leaned forward, as if she was about to say something. “Honestly, I think every woman ought to find herself a nice rich husband. That way, they never have to worry about that sort of thing.”

Her other friend had laughed and made some joke about how they should teach that in school.

She hadn’t had any malicious intent. Of that, I was certain. I had to be certain of that. She’s my friend. She had been for years. I thought of all the dinners we’d had together, all the times we’d complained about our kids to each other, all the times we’d been to Palm Springs together. She had just been thoughtless, that was all. She was so used to her designer handbags and her country club and her vacation homes that she couldn’t possibly imagine living any other way. She didn’t know what it was like to work for a living and wonder from time to time if you were going to have to borrow money from your mother to pay all the bills. Hell, the only reason she had a job in the first place was because her son was all grown up and she was bored. If she knew how it had made me feel, she would have apologized straightaway. She couldn’t have meant to make me feel like that.

But still, she had. 

I had chosen wrongly when it came to my daughter’s father. I knew that. I knew it every time I had to say no to something my daughter wanted, not because she shouldn’t have it, but because we couldn’t afford it. I knew it every time she complained about not having her own bedroom. I knew it every time I looked into my daughter’s eyes and saw him looking back at me. That stubborn, angry look of his. 

I hadn’t meant to of course. I never wanted to marry him or anything, much less have a child with him. I thought I had all the time in the world for those things. I thought I had plenty of time to have my fun before I found Mr. Right and settled down. That just wasn’t the way things turned out. Normally, I was perfectly alright with that. I had given my daughter a good childhood–probably better than most. She did all sorts of extracurricular activities, got to see all kinds of different concerts, and had traveled all over the world. Still, I thought of my friend with her rich husband and her Tesla and her enormous home and her accessories that probably cost more than my rent, and I couldn’t help but wonder what more I could have given her if I had just planned my life out a little better. 

I wondered if other parents ever looked at my daughter and saw my mistakes. If they pitied her for having a mother who had been so irresponsible. So careless. So preoccupied with living life the way she wanted to while her daughter suffered the consequences. I thought of every time she’d had to wait in the office after school as a little girl because Mommy hadn’t gotten off work yet. Had any of them ever seen her? Did they know?

I parked right outside the gate of the soccer field, getting her things together and laughing with her friends. It was dark out and I was tired. All I wanted to do was go home and curl up in a ball on the couch. But of course, I couldn’t do that. I still had to feed my daughter and make my lunch for the next day and do a million other things.  

‘If I had a rich husband, he could be doing this right now,’ I thought in spite of myself. ‘I could be at home making dinner.’

I knew this line of thought would get me nowhere. There was no use in feeling sorry for myself. I had done everything I could with what I had. My daughter was fine, perfectly fine. I just had to hope she wouldn’t grow to resent me for my mistakes, the way I was starting to. 

My daughter approached the car grinning broadly, her forehead shining with sweat. She hopped carelessly in the car, and I didn’t even bother scolding her for not taking her cleats off, which were no doubt covered in grass and mud. I couldn’t find it in myself to care. I just drove off.

As I drove, I could feel my daughter watching me. She knew something was wrong. She was very intuitive that way. She could always sense when things were even the slightest bit off, or when someone was feeling just a little bit down. She couldn’t have gotten that from me, and I knew she didn’t get it from her father–he never really cared how other people felt. That was all her.

She asked me what was wrong and I told her, trying to sound as casual about it as I could. Of course, I left out everything about how it had made me feel, but I knew she understood anyway. 

“What a bitch,” she said when I was done talking. 

“Watch your language,” I said, trying to sound as stern as possible. “She didn’t mean anything by it.” 

“Oh, she knew exactly what she was doing,” she said, very certainly. She paused for a moment, contemplating. “I’ve never liked her, you know.”

“You’re just saying that now,” I said, sort of touched.

“No, I’m serious,” she said. “I like all your other mom friends, but there’s always been something off about her.”

“What?” I asked, curiously. “Off? Off how?”

“I don’t know, I’ve always felt sort of judged by her. She just seems so…condescending,” she mused earnestly.  “Clearly, I was right.”

“You don’t think she’s got a point?” 

“Please,” she scoffed, not hesitating even for a moment. “She’s just bitter that she wasted her life being a boring little housewife and all she has to show for it is a son who’ll be lucky if he can get a job wiping down tables. Can you imagine having to go to your husband asking for money all the time? How sad.”

I went quiet. It was true, her son had been struggling to get a job. It was one of her main gripes with him. According to him, having a job was “embarrassing.” It made me proud to have a daughter so determined to be independent. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I would love to go beg my husband for money rather than having to work for it. Work was exhausting. But I knew she would think less of me if I said that, so I kept quiet.

“Fuck her,” she said with an air of finality.

I didn’t even scold her for swearing. I just smiled to myself, silently grateful for my daughter’s stubborn anger.