Peace of the Heart

I made twelve calls. Not a single person would lend me the money. My husband, Mark, said the company was tight on cash flow. My mother-in-law said her nest egg was untouchable. My brother-in-law, Kevin, said he’d just started his job and was broke. My mother was lying in the ICU, the ventilator rising and falling with each breath. The doctor said if I didn’t pay the deposit soon, they’d have to stop her medication. In the end, the person who lent me the money was my mom’s neighbor, an old man who collected cans and bottles to get by. Mr. Peterson spent a full twenty minutes counting out the small, crinkled bills from a plastic grocery bag. “Here you go, dear.” My hands were shaking when I took the money. For ten years, I’d handed over every paycheck, paid down their mortgage, and served their entire family, young and old. And all of it was worth less than the kindness of a man who salvaged cans for a living. This was a debt I was going to collect. Down to the very last cent.

01 “Five thousand dollars… you’ll have to ask someone else, Clara.” Mark’s voice came through the phone, edged with impatience. I stood outside the hospital’s emergency room, my legs trembling. “Mark, my mom had a brain hemorrhage. The doctor says she needs surgery immediately.” “I know, but there’s really no liquid cash in the company accounts. Try asking my mom.” He hung up. I stared at the call duration on the screen: 47 seconds. My mother’s life, to him, was worth forty-seven seconds. I had to call my mother-in-law three times before she picked up. “Clara, dear, what’s the rush?” “Mom, my mother is in the hospital. We’re short five thousand for the surgery. Could you possibly—” “Oh, heavens no. I can’t touch my nest egg. You need to make Mark figure it out. He’s your husband.” “Mark said the company has no money.” “Well then, you’d better think of something else. What kind of money do you expect an old woman like me to have?” Her tone was light, as if she were commenting on the price of lettuce at the market. My brother-in-law’s call was even quicker. “Clara, I just started working, I’m totally broke. You’re putting me in a really tough spot.” I remembered his wedding last year. Mark and I gave them a gift of five thousand dollars. I remembered when he was in college. I’d paid for half of his tuition over four years. I didn’t say anything. I just ended the call. The hallway reeked of antiseptic. A gurney rushed past, its wheels making a rhythmic rumbling sound against the linoleum floor. I sank to the floor in a corner, scrolling through my contacts again and again. There was no one left. I had asked everyone I could. A doctor emerged from the trauma unit. “Where’s the family? If the deposit isn’t paid, we can’t proceed with treatment.” I pushed myself up, my legs weak. I had to brace myself against the wall to stand. “Doctor, please, just give me a little more time.” “Half an hour. That’s the most I can give you.” He turned and walked away. I watched his white coat disappear around the corner, my mind a complete blank. Then I heard a voice. “Dear, is your mother in the hospital?” I turned my head and saw Mr. Peterson. He was wearing a patched-up winter coat and carrying a large woven sack filled with the clinking shapes of bottles and cans. “Mr. Peterson? What are you doing here?” “I heard from Mrs. Gable next door. I came as fast as I could.” He set his sack on the floor and pulled a worn plastic bag from inside his coat. “This is what I’ve managed to save up these past couple of years. You take it for now.” I was speechless. “Mr. Peterson, I can’t take your money.” “Take it.” He pressed the bag into my hands. “Your mother is a good woman. When I was sick years ago, she was the only one who brought me a hot meal.” I opened the bag. It was filled with small bills. Ones, fives, tens, all of them wrinkled and soft with age, some with the corners worn away. Mr. Peterson squatted on the floor and began to count. “One hundred, two hundred, three hundred…” He counted slowly, his gnarled fingers carefully smoothing out each crinkled bill before setting it aside. People bustled past in the busy hospital corridor, but no one gave him a second glance. I stood beside him, tears streaming down my face. “Forty-eight hundred, forty-nine hundred, five thousand.” He stood up and handed me the neat stack of cash. “Exactly five thousand. You should count it, dear.” My hands trembled as I took the money. “Mr. Peterson, I…” “Don’t say another word. Go pay the bill. Your mother is waiting.” Clutching the wad of cash, I ran toward the billing window. Halfway there, I stopped and looked back. Mr. Peterson was stooped over, his back bent, slowly picking up an empty plastic bottle someone had dropped on the floor. Five thousand dollars. How many thousands of cans and bottles had he collected to save that? I didn’t know. I only knew that I had been a servant to the Davis family for ten years, and in return, I had received less kindness than from a man who salvaged trash for a living.

02 The light above the operating room door glowed for four hours. I sat on a plastic chair in the hallway, my eyes fixed on that red light, not moving an inch. Ten years ago, it was a light just like this one. Back then, Mark was just starting his business, renting a basement office. No air conditioning. It was a sweltering sauna in the summer. I worked my day job, and at night, I helped him organize his books and prepare financial statements. One night, we worked until three in the morning. I fell asleep with my head on the desk. When I woke up, he had draped his jacket over my shoulders. “Honey,” he said, “once I make it, I’ll give you the good life.” I believed him. The first year of our marriage, his mother said her health was failing and she needed someone to look after her. I quit my job and moved in with them. The second year, his brother, Kevin, got into college and couldn’t afford tuition. His mother said, “Clara, you can cover it for now. Kevin will pay you back after he graduates.” I covered it. Forty thousand dollars over four years. He never paid back a single cent. The third year, our son Leo was born. I raised him by myself. The feedings, the diaper changes, the waking up in the middle of the night to mix formula. Mark said he was busy. Busy with client dinners, busy with business deals. His mother said raising children was a woman’s job, that she was too old to help. The fourth year, his mother said the household expenses were high and that I should give her my paycheck for “central management.” “Clara, I’ll save it for you. It’s better than you spending it carelessly.” I gave her my debit card. My take-home pay was four thousand a month then. Later, it rose to six thousand. Over ten years, it added up to nearly half a million dollars. The fifth year, we bought our marital home. The down payment was one hundred thousand. My parents gave me sixty, and I used forty of my own savings. The day we closed on the loan, Mark was out of town on a business trip. I ran around by myself, to the bank, to the county records office, signing a mountain of paperwork. The clerk asked me, “Whose name should be on the deed?” I looked at the form and suddenly remembered something my mother-in-law had said. “Clara, you married into the Davis family, so you are a Davis now. Stay out of your own family’s business. We don’t want people gossiping.” I wrote down my own name. At the time, I thought of it as the last escape route I might ever need. I never imagined that ten years later, I would actually have to use it. The operating room light went out. The surgeon came out. “The surgery was a success. The patient will need to be monitored in the ICU for 48 hours.” I stood up, my legs numb, nearly collapsing. “Thank you, doctor.” “The family should get some rest. There’s a long road to recovery ahead.” I nodded, watching as the nurses wheeled my mother out. Her face was ashen, her head wrapped in bandages, tubes extending from her body like a lifeless puppet. I followed the gurney, walking step by step toward the ICU. Just then, Mark’s call came through. “Clara, how was the surgery?” “It was successful.” “That’s good. I have an important meeting tomorrow that I can’t miss. It’ll be tough on you over there, but call me if anything happens.” I didn’t say a word. “Hello? Clara?” “I heard you.” I hung up. The ICU doors swung shut, and I watched my mother through the glass window. Ten years. I did the laundry and cooked the meals for the Davis family. I cared for my in-laws and raised our child. I managed the books for Mark’s company, ran his errands, and held down the fort at home so he could build his business. I gave the best years of my life to that family. And today, when my mother was on the verge of death, they wouldn’t even lend me five thousand dollars. I leaned against the wall, staring blankly at the ceiling. The rhythmic beeping of the machines in the ICU sounded like a countdown. Ten years of marriage. A thirty-two-year-old life. What had it all been for?

03 The hospital room was quiet, punctuated only by the steady beep of the heart monitor. My mother was awake. She opened her eyes and studied my face for a long moment before recognition dawned. “Clara?” “I’m here, Mom.” I took her hand. It was frail and bony, her skin a roadmap of blue veins. “The surgery bill…” “It’s paid, Mom. Don’t you worry.” She stared at me, then asked quietly, “Who lent it to you?” I didn’t answer. “Was it the Davises?” I still said nothing. She closed her eyes. After a long pause, she spoke. “Clara, I’m so sorry.” “Mom, what are you talking about?” “I never should have let you marry into that family.” I froze. “I saw right through them from the beginning,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Your mother-in-law… she says all the right things, but the only people she cares about are her own children. In her eyes, you’re nothing but a free maid.” I remained silent. “I’ve seen how much you’ve suffered all these years.” She opened her eyes, her gaze meeting mine, her rims red with unshed tears. “But you never said anything, so I couldn’t interfere.” “Mom…” “Clara, my life isn’t worth you begging them.” She squeezed my hand. “Who was it? Who really lent you the money?” I was quiet for a long time. “Mr. Peterson.” She looked stunned. “The man who collects cans?” “Yes.” The room fell silent. My mother stared at the ceiling, a single tear tracing a path from the corner of her eye to her temple. “Clara, listen to me.” “I’m listening, Mom.” “Don’t be a fool anymore.” She turned her head to face me. “They don’t treat you like a human being. Why on earth are you still treating them like family?” I looked at her, and something inside me shattered. Or maybe, something was finally pieced back together. It was nine in the evening when I got home. Leo was already asleep. My mother-in-law was on the couch watching TV. She didn’t even look up when I walked in. “You’re back? How’s your mother?” “The surgery was a success.” “Good. Oh, and remember to get up early tomorrow to cook. Kevin’s wife is coming over.” I just looked at her. “What are you staring at? Go take a shower and get to bed.” I turned, walked into my bedroom, and locked the door behind me. Mark wasn’t home yet. I opened my laptop and created a new spreadsheet. I thought for a long time about the title. Finally, I typed four words: The Ten-Year Bill. Row one: Surrendered Salary, $480,000. Row two: Mortgage Payments, $250,000. Row three: Car Payments, $75,000. Row four: Kevin’s Tuition & Wedding Gift, $65,000. Row five: Ten Years of Unpaid Domestic Labor, Market Rate, $300,000. I sat there, staring at the screen, calculating every last cent. I was still at it at two in the morning when Mark finally came home. He tried the door, found it locked, and knocked twice. “Clara? Why’s the door locked?” I didn’t move. “Clara?” I shut down the laptop and opened the door. He reeked of alcohol, his tie hanging crooked. “You’re just getting home?” “Client dinner.” He kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the bed. “I’m exhausted. So, is your mom any better?” I stared at him without answering. “Alright, well, let’s get some sleep. I have another meeting tomorrow.” He rolled over, and within seconds, he was snoring. I sat on the edge of the bed, looking at his back. This was the man I had spent a decade with. In all that time, he had never truly listened to a single word I said. I stood up and opened the laptop again. This bill had to be settled.

04 The first thing I did was report my debit card as lost and have it canceled. The bank printed out statements that were over twenty pages long. I went through them, page by page. From January 2014 to September 2024, there was a transfer every single month. Into an account under my mother-in-law’s name. The first year, four thousand a month. The third year, it went up to five thousand. The sixth year, six thousand. Over ten years, the total came to $483,700. I decided to round it down to an even $480,000. I wasn’t going to fight over the change. The company’s finances were even easier to track. I had been a part-time accountant for Mark’s company for five years, and I had backups of everything. When my friend Linda helped me organize the data, she just kept shaking her head at the numbers. “Clara, have you been living under a rock all these years? All this money, and you didn’t see a dime of it?” “I thought we were a family. I didn’t think we needed to keep score.” “A family?” Linda scoffed. “What did your ‘family’ say the night your mom was in the ICU?” I fell silent. “Listen to me. You need to leave him. This man, this family… are you keeping them around for Christmas?” I compiled all the evidence into folders, neatly labeled: Salary Statements, Mortgage Records, Car Loan Payments, Company Accounts. And one more item, the most important of all. The fifty thousand dollars my dad had lent Mark to start his business, money he got from selling his own house. I still had the promissory note, signed by Mark, his thumbprint pressed beside his signature. I remember my mother-in-law saying at the time, “Clara, your father did this willingly. It’s not a loan, why do you need a piece of paper?” My dad had insisted. “It’s always smart to put things in writing, even with family.”