I still replay that day in my head, every single detail, every agonizing second. It started so innocently. My SIL was over with her kids, filling our house with their usual boisterous energy. We’d spent a decent afternoon, and as dinner approached, I felt that familiar warmth of being the host. I genuinely love having family around. Dinner time neared, and she brought up going out. A nice gesture, I thought. I’d already told her we’d take care of the bill, as a treat. Then I remembered. “Hey,” I said, “how about we wait just another 40 minutes? I have this fantastic coupon, makes the whole meal so much cheaper. We’re talking like, from $175 down to under $75.” A hundred dollars saved, just for a little patience. It seemed like such a no-brainer.
But her face changed. Just a flicker, but it was there. She grumbled something under her breath, about how she wanted to go now. Then she excused herself to “check on the kids.” A few minutes later, those perfectly fine, energy-filled kids ambled onto the patio, dramatically clutching their stomachs. “I’m SOOO hungry!” they whined in unison, as if on cue. My MIL and FIL, bless their hearts, immediately fell for it. “Oh, the poor dears! Let’s just go now, dear. They can’t wait.” The pressure mounted. A quiet sigh escaped me. What’s an extra hundred dollars when everyone else is looking at you like that? I agreed. My smile felt brittle.
At the restaurant, I ordered, watched them pick the most expensive items on the menu without a second thought, and I just kept my face neutral. I didn’t say a word about the coupon. I didn’t even pull it out of my wallet. It wasn’t worth the drama. It wasn’t worth another argument. I wanted peace. I just wanted a simple, pleasant family dinner. But as I watched them eat, laughing, oblivious, a heavy, cold knot formed in my stomach. The food tasted like ash. I kept thinking about that extra $100. That seemingly insignificant $100.
That $100 wasn’t just “extra.” It wasn’t just a saving for a rainy day. It was the exact amount I needed for a specific co-pay. I’d had an appointment, a crucial one, scheduled for a week later. It was my last chance. My LAST CHANCE for another round of fertility treatment. I’d drained our savings, worked extra shifts, cut every single corner. That $100 was the final piece of the puzzle, the payment that would secure that appointment, that desperate hope. I had just managed to scrape it together, meticulously setting it aside, feeling a flicker of actual hope for the first time in years.
By agreeing to pay the full price of that dinner, I silently, irrevocably, spent the money for that co-pay. I knew it the moment I said yes. I knew I couldn’t reschedule the appointment again. I knew it was over. I went home that night, not just $100 poorer, but utterly, completely broken. My SIL, my family, they had no idea. NO IDEA what they had taken from me, what that “little inconvenience” had cost me. I never told my partner. I still haven’t. And I never will.
