She would leave money on the table. Never handed it to me, never even acknowledged it. Just left it there like a reminder. Like proof of what little control I had.
It made me feel cheap. Like I wasn’t even worth the effort of a conversation.
Said it was for the shopping.
I had to make it stretch, get everything on her list, no excuses.
There was never any extra. Never enough to buy myself anything—not a coffee, not a snack, not even a bar of soap if we ran out. Every penny had a purpose, and if I got the numbers wrong, I paid for it in other ways.
Sometimes, though, it wasn’t enough, and I’d have to beg or steal to get everything.
Couldn’t go back without it all. That made her mad.
Once, I tried explaining. Said the prices had gone up, that I couldn’t get everything with what she gave me. She just looked at me, eyes cold, and said, “Figure it out.”
So I did.
Stole fruit from market stalls, slipped tins into my coat pocket when no one was looking. Begged strangers for change, lying through my teeth about forgetting my wallet.
And she never asked how I managed it. Never cared, as long as I walked through the door with everything on her list.
But I had an idea.
One day, I didn’t go shopping.
I took the money and ran. I didn’t know where I was going, didn’t care. I just needed out. I bought a train ticket—one way, anywhere. For the first time in years, I felt like I had a choice.
But she tracked me down.
I don’t know how. Maybe she had people watching. Maybe she just knew me too well.
There was no escape.
She made sure of that.
