On the first Friday of every month, my father withdrew cash from the bank, placed it inside a white envelope, and handed it to my mother.
When I was little, I assumed it was money for household expenses.
But as I grew older, I noticed that my mother always became sad after receiving the envelope.
Sometimes, she even cried. And my father would say,
“Linda, we made an agreement. Don’t bring this up again.”
And my mother would fall silent. That Sunday, everything changed.
My father had gone outside into the yard, and I was helping my mother in the kitchen. Suddenly, she grabbed my hand.
“Emily, there’s something you need to know.”
Her voice was trembling.
“What is it, Mom?”
She glanced toward the window to make sure my father was far away, then whispered,
“Your father has been paying me every month for years to keep my mouth shut.”
