Chapter 10 - The Money We Never Let Become the Marriage
Marriage did not solve us.
Thank God.
A year later, we fought about a dishwasher.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
It broke.
I ordered a new high-end one for $2,400.
Ethan canceled the delivery.
I was furious.
“You canceled something I bought?”
“You ordered something for our house without asking.”
“It’s a dishwasher.”
“Exactly.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“No.”
We argued for forty minutes.
Then realized we were not arguing about appliances.
I still believed small purchases were too trivial to discuss because money did not matter to me.
To Ethan, joint decisions mattered regardless of amount.
We created a threshold.
Anything above $500 for shared property required a conversation.
My financial adviser found this hilarious.
I did not.
Then children entered the conversation.
I wasn't sure.
Ethan was.
He wanted them.
Not immediately.
Eventually.
I feared what money would do to parenting.
I had seen wealthy families whose children understood price but not value.
Ethan laughed.
“You are worrying about corrupting children who don't exist.”
“Yes.”
“Efficient.”
We talked.
No decision.
Then Diane got breast cancer.
Early stage.
Treatable.
Still terrifying.
She called Ethan first.
He called me.
At the hospital, Diane looked annoyed.
“Everyone stop looking like I died.”
Ethan cried.
She said:
“Fine. One person may be dramatic.”
Treatment began.
Insurance covered most.
Not all.
Diane’s old instinct returned.
She tried to hide bills.
I noticed.
Of course.
This time, no family-loan charade.
I asked:
“What do you want?”
She looked tired.
“For once?”
“Yes.”
“I want not to think about money.”
My throat tightened.
“Okay.”
That was consent.
I paid what insurance did not.
No repayment.
No contract.
Diane cried.
First time I ever saw her cry about money.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate needing you.”
“You don't.”
“What?”
“You asked me.”
I squeezed her hand.
“That’s different.”
She laughed through tears.
“Look at you.”
“What?”
“Learning.”
Treatment lasted months.
Ethan struggled.
He taught.
Visited.
Cooked.
Forgot things.
Once he snapped at me because I bought the wrong cereal.
Then apologized for twenty minutes.
Stress reveals people.
Not always gracefully.
But honestly.
Diane recovered.
At her final radiation appointment, we celebrated with grocery-store cupcakes.
Her choice.
“Expensive cake tastes pretentious,” she said.
No one argued.
Afterward, Ethan told me:
“I want kids.”
“I know.”
“No.”
He took my hand.
“I mean I know I want them with you.”
That hit differently.
I thought.
Not answer fast.
We spent six months discussing it.
Then tried.
A year passed.
Nothing.
Tests.
Appointments.
I hated clinics.
Not from trauma like another life.
Simply because uncertainty humiliates everyone.
We learned pregnancy would be difficult.
Not impossible.
Difficult.
Ethan said:
“We stop if you want.”
I cried.
Not because I wanted to stop.
Because he said you before we when the medical burden was mine.
We tried treatment.
One round.
Failed.
Second.
Failed.
I became obsessive.
Schedules.
Statistics.
Control.
Ethan finally said:
“Natalie, I want a family.”
I snapped:
“I'm trying.”
He shook his head.
“I said family.”
Not pregnancy.
Family.
We stopped treatment.
Three months later, we began exploring adoption.
The irony was not lost on me.
A woman who once feared anyone knowing what she owned now willingly opened every bank statement, medical record, employment history, and personal reference to strangers.
Home study.
Classes.
Interviews.
Waiting.
A year later, we got a call.
A six-year-old girl named Lucy needed a permanent placement.
Not a baby.
Not the story we imagined.
A child who had already lived enough life to distrust promises.
We met her.
She barely spoke.
Ethan did not push.
He sat on the floor drawing dinosaurs.
Lucy corrected his stegosaurus.
That was probably when she chose him.
She chose me slower.
Fair.
We became parents eighteen months after our first meeting.
Not because money bought speed.
It didn't.
Because waiting eventually became yes.
Lucy moved into the house with two trash bags and a pink backpack.
I could have bought her anything.
I wanted to.
Diane stopped me.
“Ask.”
Right.
I asked Lucy:
“What do you need?”
She looked at me suspiciously.
“Can I paint my room yellow?”
“Yes.”
“How yellow?”
“Your choice.”
May you like
She smiled.
That was enough.
