“The ribs are good, but next time use more spice.”
“For someone with your salary, honey, you could buy better shrimp.”
Then Elvira packed half the refrigerator for Diego’s brother Raul, Raul’s wife Martha, and their three children to eat during the week. Nobody asked how much it cost. Nobody washed a pot. Nobody said thank you without adding a “but.”
That month, out of curiosity, Paola opened a spreadsheet. She added meat, vegetables, wine, desserts, gas, extra cleaning supplies, birthday gifts, school supplies for the nieces and nephews, and the pharmacy runs Diego called “helping my mom because she’s short right now.” In one year, Saturday family meals alone had cost Paola $9,840. Diego contributed $400 a month to the shared household account and treated the rest of his paycheck like private treasure.
The week before, he had walked in with a new gaming console and three games, calling them “a small personal treat.” That same day, Paola had paid the mortgage, the power bill, the Costco run for his family, and a new backpack for Raul’s youngest son because Elvira said the child “felt left out.” When Paola asked Diego to deposit more into the shared account, he sighed as if she were taking oxygen from his lungs.
“You’re always talking about expenses, Paola.”
She did not answer.
She wrote it down.
The separate-finances idea had not come from Diego alone. For two weeks he had been quoting his coworker Julian, a divorced man who smelled like bitterness and cheap cologne, saying women “get comfortable living off men.” Then Elvira had delivered the final performance at Paola’s own table.
“Modern marriages keep money separate,” Elvira had said while packing brisket into her third container. “That way nobody is supporting anybody.”
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