On the third day after my daughter was born, I asked Carter for money to buy formula. Instead, he shoved a pile of mystery boxes in front of me. “Pick one.” For three years of marriage, my living expenses depended entirely on drawing from mystery boxes. The most I ever got was $108. All because on the day of our engagement, instead of the agreed-upon $108,000 family wedding gift, my dad suddenly brought out a giant mystery box, laughing: “Let’s not be cliché! Whatever you draw is what we get!” I froze on the spot. What I never expected was that Carter drew the grand prize: $1.88 million. Yet, he paid every single cent of it and threw me the most sensational wedding in the city. Everyone said he loved me to death. But on the second day of our marriage, he smashed a whole case of mystery boxes in front of me: “Doesn’t your family love playing this game? From now on, your living expenses will be decided by drawing boxes.” For three years, my allowance was sometimes $9.90, sometimes $108. When I got pregnant, I thought things would be different once the baby was born. But right now, I just wanted to buy my daughter a can of formula. The mystery box was placed in front of me as usual, and inside was a slip for $9.90. A second later, my younger sister—who had also just given birth—posted a screenshot on her Instagram. It was a wire transfer for $990,000. “Thank you, brother-in-law, for the welcome gift for the baby.” I stared at that picture for a long time, then dialed an international number. “Didn’t you say you were willing to be my child’s father?” “Pick me up in seven days.” …… When I was opening the mystery box, a nurse curiously peeked over. “Wow, a gift from your husband? That is so thoughtful!” She looked at the pile of boxes with pure envy. Until she saw the $9.90 written on the slip of paper. The air in the room instantly froze. Carter expressionlessly ordered his assistant to take the remaining boxes away. His tone was ice-cold: “The rules don’t change just because you had a kid.” The nurse opened her mouth, her expression incredibly awkward. She probably wanted to ask what kind of rule dictated making a postpartum mother draw from a lottery box for a $9.90 allowance. But how could I explain? Explain that my parents, desperate to scrape together a down payment and a dowry for my younger sister Chloe, went behind my back on my engagement day and swapped the agreed-upon money for a high-stakes lottery box? Explain that when I confronted them, my mother clutched her chest and threatened, “If you dare tell Carter, I’ll jump off this building”? Explain that since then, under the pressure of the Hayes Corporation, no company dared to hire me, leaving me entirely dependent on these mystery boxes to survive? I looked down at my daughter beside me. Her little face was wrinkled, and she was sleeping quietly. “Carter, can I buy a thermal sleep sack? Newborns can’t regulate their body temperature well…” “Trying to use the kid to extort money?” he cut me off. “The hospital has blankets.” The door clicked shut. His leather shoes echoed down the hallway, fading further and further away. The nurse suddenly turned and left, returning a moment later with a small blanket. “This is a spare from our nursing station. It’s clean. You can wrap the baby in it for now.” She carefully tucked the blanket around my daughter. A total stranger was paying more attention to her than her own father. I whispered a thank you. She hesitated, then said softly, “Your husband… he’s probably just not good at expressing himself.” I smiled but didn’t answer. That night, I scrolled past Chloe’s Instagram post. A VIP maternity suite, stocked with fully imported baby supplies. The caption read: “He said our baby can’t settle for anything less than the best.” Below was a row of likes. Carter, my mom, my dad. They were all there. I stared at the words “can’t settle” for a long time. Suddenly, I remembered years ago when Carter said, “If we have a girl, I’m going to spoil her like the happiest little princess in the world.” Back then, there was a light in his eyes. Now, that light was shining on someone else’s child. I folded the $9.90 slip of paper and tucked it into my wallet. Inside were last month’s $6.60. And the month before’s $5.30. Carter was standing at the door. I didn’t know when he had come back. He saw me folding the slip, paused, and finally just said: “Take care of the kid. Stop scheming for ways to bleed me dry.” Out in the hallway, he made a phone call. Through the door, I heard him perfectly. “You lost the bet. She didn’t throw a tantrum,” he chuckled. “A gold digger wouldn’t dare give up the position of Mrs. Hayes, especially now that she has a kid.” I leaned against the headboard and closed my eyes. My phone rang. An international number. The person on the other end was silent for a second. “The tickets are booked. Seven days. I’ll be there.” I didn’t speak. He added, “Stella, wait for me.” I looked down at my daughter. She was still asleep, her tiny hand gripping my finger tightly. “Okay.” On the day I was discharged, I packed my things early. My daughter was wearing her only new outfit, a gift from my best friend. I sat on the edge of the bed holding her, waiting for Carter. But in the end, all I got was a text. “The driver is coming to get you. I’m at Chloe’s. She’s being discharged today too, and they don’t have enough hands to help.” Unreasonable, yet entirely expected. Ever since my sister was widowed, he had been “helping out” a lot. I stared at the screen for a few seconds, closed the chat, and didn’t reply. The driver arrived exactly on time. The car was spotless. My daughter started fussing in my arms. It was time to feed her. I pulled out a bottle. The driver glanced at the rearview mirror, looking conflicted. “Ma’am, I’m sorry… Mr. Hayes specifically instructed that no eating or drinking is allowed in the car.” I froze. “I’m just giving her a bottle. It won’t make a mess.” “But Mr. Hayes said… Please don’t make this hard for me, ma’am.” I stopped, put the bottle back into my bag, and held my daughter a little tighter. She cried from hunger. I gently patted her back the entire ride home. When I got to the house, I unlocked my phone and saw a short video Chloe had posted. She was sitting in the passenger seat of Carter’s car. A box of expensive cherries rested on her lap, and she was popping them into her mouth one by one. Red juice splattered everywhere. Carter was driving beside her, glancing over with an indulgent smile. My parents were in the back seat. My mom was holding a bottle for Chloe’s baby, while my dad held a small towel under the baby’s chin, smiling so hard his eyes disappeared. They looked like a perfect, complete family. I swiped the video away. The doorbell rang that afternoon. Chloe stood at the door, holding her chubby, rosy-cheeked baby. She peeked into the living room at the crib and covered her mouth with a giggle. “Sister, why is this crib… so old? Isn’t my brother-in-law rich?” I didn’t answer. She pulled a bag out of her purse and handed it to me. “These are some clothes my baby outgrew. Don’t be offended, Stella, the fabric is really soft. Carter bought them. They were thousands of dollars a piece.” She looked down at my daughter, her smile unwavering. “Sister, why is yours so skinny?” I took the bag and forced a “thank you” out of my throat. I closed the door and immediately threw the bag into the trash can. That night, Maya called me. “I saw the video Chloe posted. I am so mad! She did that on purpose! And Carter—you nearly hemorrhaged having his child, and this is how he treats you?” “Don’t let them walk all over you. Whatever the baby needs, tell me. I’ll buy it.” “Maya, thank you.” “Don’t be polite with me. You’re my number one priority.” My nose stung. At least one person was still on my side. After hanging up, I started packing. A few clothes for me and my daughter, our IDs, and a small bag hidden in the very back of the closet. I didn’t notice when Carter came home. He leaned against the bedroom doorframe, watching me. Suddenly, he let out a scoffing laugh. “If you want money to buy clothes, just ask. Save the tragic acting.” I didn’t turn around. He walked over and suddenly wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my head. The smell of alcohol hit my nose. His voice was soft. “Stella, stop throwing a fit.” I was dazed for a moment. Years ago, he had held me exactly like this. I had been caught in the rain and was running a high fever. He drove all night from out of state just to get to me. He bundled me into his arms and said, “Don’t ever wait for the rain to stop alone again.” Now, this identical, warm embrace was only because he was drunk. The man who once drove through the night for me didn’t even show up to take his newborn baby home from the hospital. I gently removed his hands. “I’m not throwing a fit.” At 3:00 AM, my daughter started crying. I picked her up to nurse her, but she cried after a few weak suckles. I wasn’t producing enough milk. I tore through the cabinets. No formula. I checked my banking app. Balance: $9.90. 3:10 AM. 3:30 AM. 4:00 AM. She kept crying. I paced the living room with her in my arms, circling over and over again. Carter’s master bedroom door was shut. He was sleeping deeply. I kissed my daughter’s forehead. “Baby, Mommy is so sorry.” “Just wait a few more days. Mommy promises to take you away.” My daughter’s fever spiked to 103.6 degrees. I rushed into the ER with her in my arms, registered, waited in line, trembling all over. The doctor took off his stethoscope and frowned. “The child is malnourished, severely underweight, and her immune system is practically non-existent.” He looked up at me, his tone heavy. “This is a highly dangerous condition for a newborn. What is wrong with you parents?” I opened my mouth but couldn’t speak. What was wrong? Her living expenses and mine combined to exactly $9.90 a month. I called Carter. To my surprise, he actually showed up. A sliver of hope rose in my chest. For the first time in three years of marriage, I begged him. “The baby needs specialized formula and nutritional supplements. Can we stop the mystery boxes? Please, just give me a normal allowance.” He stared at me for a few seconds, pulled a card from his pocket, and tossed it to me. “There’s two grand on it. That’s enough.” “It’s not enough. The doctor said the follow-up exams and the out-of-network specialist—” His voice suddenly turned freezing cold. “Stella, $1.88 million couldn’t fill your appetite, and now two grand is too little?” “When you set up that mystery box scam to bleed me dry, did you ever think this day would come?”
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