“I send money home every month,” I said slowly. “A lot of money. My mom is here to take care of you. There’s food in this house. So why are you eating this?”
Emily pressed her lips together. For a few seconds, she said nothing.
Then a tear slipped down her cheek.
“Because…” she whispered, “that’s all they let me eat.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“What…?”
She closed her eyes. “Your mom says after childbirth, I shouldn’t eat too much. She says if I eat good food, my milk will be ‘too strong’ for the baby.”
My mind went blank.
“So she keeps the good food,” Emily continued, her voice shaking. “She says it’s for you… because you work hard. And for herself… because she’s older.”
My throat tightened. “And you?”
Emily glanced at the bowl. “Sometimes… I get the leftovers.”
I looked down at the food again.
Then something hit me.
Every time I called home, my mother said the same thing:
“Your wife is doing great. She eats well. Gets plenty of rest.”
A chill ran down my spine.
“How long has this been happening?” I asked.
Emily hesitated. “Since I came home from the hospital.”
A month.
An entire month.
A month where I thought she was being cared for.
A month where my mother took my money.