My father took my mother’s entire paycheck for 43 years. when she finally demanded her money back, he placed a folder
on the table and said, “Once You open this, you’ll never look at me the same way again.”
Our neighbors always believed my father was a bad man. To be honest, for many years, I believed the same thing.
He rarely smiled, spoke in a short, stern manner, and looked so cold in photographs that people often asked my mother,
“Margaret, are you really happy with him?”
My mother always gave the same answer.
“Don’t look at Robert’s face if you want to understand him.”
But no one understood what she meant.
My mother worked at a small clothing factory for more than forty years. Every Friday, she received her paycheck, came home,
and placed the sealed envelope in front of my father.
He would open it, count the money, and carry it into their bedroom. My mother was left with almost nothing. I first noticed it
when I was twelve years old.
One day, my mother saw a beautiful blue coat in a store window. She stood there for a long time, smiling at it. Winters in our
town were very cold, and her old coat was already worn out.
“Buy it, Mom,” I said. “You worked all week for that money.”
My mother remained silent. When we returned home, she cautiously asked my father,
“Robert, could I keep a little of my paycheck this month? I need a new coat.”
My father did not even raise his head.
“Not this month.”
“But my old one is torn.”
“I said no.”
My mother didn’t say another word.
That night, I cried into my pillow. I felt that my father treated my mother like a servant. She worked from morning until
evening but had no right to use her own money.
