They Called Me Selfish for Asking Him to Feed His Own Son Chapter 01
My husband’s known for being a saint. Every month, he pulls in a solid paycheck and gives every last penny to charity.
The bills, his parents’ medical costs, our son’s tuition—it all falls on me. I can barely keep us afloat, so I go to him and say, “Could you maybe set aside just a little for this family?”
He gets angry.
“It’s my money. I earned it. I’ll give away whatever I want. Why do you have to be so controlling?”
His parents jump in. “Our son is a well-known philanthropist. You should be proud of him, but instead you’re trying to tear him down and trash his reputation? That’s so selfish.”
Even my five-year-old son blames me. “Mommy won’t let Daddy be a good person. Mommy’s bad!”
I nod. No argument.
I turn around and accept the company’s six-month immersive bootcamp.
Let’s see how these saints live without my paycheck.
***
Payday. Derek Shaw gets home and hops on Instagram.
[Donated $15.8k this month. Not much. Hope it helps.]
Attached are his donation receipts and a certificate from the charity.
The comments roll in fast.
[Derek, you’re an absolute legend! You donated your whole paycheck—bonus and all.”
[True philanthropist right here. Keeps nothing for himself. Respect.]
[Good people get good things. You deserve it, man.]
His parents like and comment instantly, [That’s our son. So proud of you!]
I sigh, close Instagram, and open my budget tracker.
This month’s bills, son’s tuition, his parents’ meds, car payment, mortgage, last month’s maxed-out credit card…
All together, it was more than twenty-two hundred bucks. My paycheck? Fifteen hundred. So I was still seven hundred fifty short.
Same as always.
Every month, the bills sit on my chest like a knife, squeezing the air out of me.
I take a deep breath and glance at Derek on the couch.
He’s still scrolling Facebook, smiling every few seconds—probably someone else praising him.
I hesitate, then speak. “Derek, can we talk?”
He doesn’t look up from his phone. “Go ahead.”
I swallow. “The bills this month are thirty-two hundred. I only bring home two grand. We’re twelve hundred short. Can you please leave a little for this family instead of donating every last cent?”
His thumb stops scrolling.
He looks up like I just said something insane. “I work hard for my money. I’ll donate it if I want. You want to control that too?”
“I’m not trying to stop you from donating. I just want you to leave a little at home. Dad’s heart is bad. Mom has diabetes. Our son needs school. The car and mortgage aren’t paid off. I can’t carry all of it alone.”
He snorts. “Can’t carry it? Then work harder. The only way people think I’m great is if I give it all away. Why would you want to be lazy and ruin that?”
I stare at him, stunned.
For this family, I’ve worked late every night. For years, I haven’t bought a single piece of clothing. Haven’t slept a full night. Haven’t even dared to call in sick.
