The Price of Indifference
Chapter 1: The Unwanted Return
My name is Audrey, and I had been married for just over a year when my mother-in-law delivered a blow that rearranged my entire world. I’d spent that year tirelessly, earnestly, trying to win her approval, pouring my energy into every task, every request, every polite conversation. It seemed, however, that all my efforts were for naught. The reason, when it finally came, was breathtaking in its simplicity and cruelty.
“I’m giving you back,” she stated, her voice flat, devoid of emotion, as if she were returning a faulty appliance.
“What? Return?” I stammered, utterly perplexed. The word hung in the air, sharp and disorienting. I was, needless to say, completely taken aback. But my confusion, my shock, my burgeoning hurt—none of it mattered. My mother-in-law simply ushered me into her car and drove. Her intention was clear, unmistakable: she was taking me to my parents’ house. They lived only a few minutes away, a brief drive that felt like an eternity.
When we pulled up to my childhood home, she didn’t bother to knock. Instead, she bellowed loudly at the closed front door. “Hey, come on out!”
Inside, I heard a thumping sound, a hurried scramble. My father appeared almost immediately, his face etched with a question. “Oh, can I assist you?” he asked, ever polite, ever welcoming.
“I’m sorry, but I have to speak with you,” my mother-in-law replied, her tone deliberately formal, dripping with an unspoken accusation.
“A talk? Let’s hear it inside. Come on in,” my father responded, a smile still gracing his lips, unaware of the storm brewing.
My mother-in-law, however, shook her head, a dismissive gesture. “We can talk here. We’re only here to give your useless daughter back.”
Useless daughter? The words hit me like a physical blow. My father’s expression shifted instantly, the warmth in his eyes replaced by a dangerous chill as his gaze turned to my mother-in-law. “What do you mean, useless?” he wondered, his voice now tight with suppressed anger.
“I mean exactly what I said,” she insisted, her chin jutting out defiantly. “Isn’t that right?” She looked at my father, expecting him to understand, to agree. “Don’t you understand unless I tell you? A wife with a monthly salary of only $500 is a faulty product. Defective,” she declared, as if delivering a final, damning verdict.
Defective? My father’s face transformed, his features contorting into something akin to a demon’s. I recognized that look. It was the face he wore just before he unleashed a force of nature. A tremor of fear ran through me, a chilling premonition that my father was about to lose control. But there was nothing I could do. My mother-in-law, oblivious to the inferno she was igniting, continued to speak ill of me, her words flowing freely as if she were discussing the weather.
“You know what? She can’t do a thing around the house, and she doesn’t make much money,” she accused, piling on the supposed transgressions.
“And now you want to return her?” my father inquired, his voice taut, stretched to its breaking point.
At that moment, drawn by the commotion, my mother emerged from the house, her gentle face clouded with concern. My mother-in-law didn’t even glance at her. She kept her focus solely on my father. “That’s what I said,” she reiterated. “I’m returning such a wife, so the parents should accept responsibility,” she added, a smug satisfaction in her tone.
“I see. I understand what you mean,” my father replied, his voice eerily calm now. He took one look at my mother, a silent communication passing between them. Then, they both nodded, a shared understanding settling over them.
“Well, then there’s nothing we can do. Let us take responsibility and close the company,” my father uttered, his voice heavy with a decision that sent a shiver down my spine.
“Yes, we need to accept responsibility and close the company,” my mother added firmly, her eyes holding a similar, dangerous resolve.
“What? You’re going to close the business?” My mother-in-law’s smug expression finally cracked, replaced by genuine shock. “Wait, what company are you referring to?” my father-in-law, who had just arrived at the scene, asked, a little upset, sensing the shift in dynamics.
“You’re asking us to take responsibility. It’s our company. What else could it be?” my father stated flatly, his gaze piercing.
I couldn’t help but sigh, a wave of weariness washing over me as I watched my father. He was furious, his fury a simmering volcano. What should I do? I thought. I knew from experience that once he reached this state, there was no stopping him. My father, when serious, would always follow through on his promises. No matter how difficult the task, he would make whatever he said come true. Particularly when it came to me, because he adored me so much.
Chapter 2: A Fragile Childhood and a Digital Awakening
Why was my father so devoted to me, so fiercely protective? It had everything to do with my childhood. From a young age, I was extremely frail. It seemed as though my body was made of glass; if something untoward happened, even a minor change in routine, I’d immediately succumb to a fever and be confined to bed. Every few weeks, like clockwork, a fever would grip me, rendering me weak and listless for a week or more. This meant I couldn’t attend elementary school much, and consequently, I rarely played with friends. My world often narrowed to the four walls of my bedroom.
My mother, of course, would stay by my side if I fell ill, her gentle presence a constant comfort. And my father, consumed by worry, would often be unable to complete any work. This was a common occurrence in our family, a rhythm dictated by my fragile health. Perhaps it was precisely because of my frailty that he loved me even more than usual. In any case, both of my parents adored me, lavishing me with affection and care from the moment I was born.
Being physically weak wasn’t entirely bad, either. My parents, desperate to keep me occupied during my prolonged bedridden spells, provided me with a myriad of distractions. They bought me books, video games, and a variety of other items designed to stimulate my mind when my body couldn’t keep up. My older brother, healthy and active, was often consumed by a fierce, if understandable, jealousy. I was the only one who could be bought so many things.
Among these treasures, I was particularly fond of my laptop. It was my father’s old work computer, a secondhand device he’d upgraded from. It might not have been cutting-edge enough for a normal adult, but for an elementary school student, it was a universe. I was able to draw pictures, crude at first, but filled with imagination. I could play simple games. Most importantly, I could connect to the internet and peer out at what was going on in the world, a world I rarely got to experience firsthand.
I spent most of my time in bed, so the computer became a whole new world to me. There was a world here that I had no idea existed. Perhaps I can make my own world here. It’s a cherished memory from my childhood, that spark of discovery. That is how I became interested in computers, how a fascination with pixels and code began to bloom within me. It started with simple children’s drawings, but I eventually moved on to more complex computer graphics. Fascinated by the possibilities of 3D, I began to study illustration and graphic design with an almost obsessive dedication.
That’s how I ended up becoming a graphic designer. Even though I’m weak, I can handle this. With this conviction, after graduating from high school, I began working as a graphic designer from home. However, I encountered numerous difficulties in the beginning. I was largely self-taught, lacking any specialized formal knowledge, and I had no idea how to find work, how to navigate the professional world from my isolated bedroom. My body isn’t in good enough shape to go to work, so I’ll just have to make do. Commuting to a traditional job was simply not an option. I could work remotely, but even then, I wouldn’t be able to work every day like a regular person. My energy levels were too unpredictable. In other words, the only way for me to sustain myself was to take on work independently, at my own pace, and complete it from home.
It was a daunting prospect, a lot of hard work, but the thought that I could support myself, could live an independent life, fueled me. I spent many days researching on the internet, piling hard work on top of hard work. I persisted, pouring my heart into every project, and gradually, more and more people began to recognize my talent and dedication. The same clients approached me again, or they introduced me to new ones through word-of-mouth. My freelance work gradually began to take on the characteristics of a stable, fulfilling job. In the meantime, five years passed, a blur of late nights and creative breakthroughs. When my work finally started to become popular, when I started seeing tangible success, I breathed a deep sigh of relief.
My father approached me with a proposal at that point. “Audrey,” he said one evening, “do you want to make a commercial for a construction company?”
It was an unexpected request, but one that filled me with a quiet pride. My father owned and operated a local construction company. He used to specialize in building houses on contract, but now remodeling homes was his main source of income. It was a small operation, with only three employees—my father, my mother, and my brother—but it was a well-known and respected construction company in our neighborhood.
“Are you sure you want me to do this?” I asked, wanting to be absolutely clear. “If it were a job, I’d be paid, right?”
“I didn’t request it because you’re my daughter,” my father replied, his eyes serious, but with an undercurrent of warmth. “I’m asking because I believe you have good advertising tastes.”
I thanked my father for his words, a lump forming in my throat. I was pleased to be recognized as having good taste, but more than anything, I felt accepted. My design, my unique vision, was later used as an insert advertisement in the local newspaper. I also made a professional website for the construction company, showcasing the ad and our services. Of course, because we were a local company, we weren’t well-known on a national scale. But locals would approach me, their faces lit with recognition, and say, “I saw your ad!” And some would even add, “It’s good.” I couldn’t stop smiling; such voices, such acknowledgment, made me incredibly happy.
At the same time, my advertisement was also turned into a poster. These posters were proudly displayed at the company’s entrance and on bulletin boards maintained by the local community association. I can stand on my own feet. I can live independently, I thought to myself, overjoyed to have such a profound sense of accomplishment. Meanwhile, my posters became the talk of the town. The daughter of the construction company is a designer. She also creates advertisements for the building company. Such rumors began to circulate, spreading like wildfire through the community. As a result, the locals, seeing my work, began to approach me for assistance with their own ventures.
Chapter 3: A Partnership and a Proposal
Then someone came to see me one day, specifically seeking my skills. It was an electrician from the town, a familiar face from our community. He approached my father, his request straightforward: “Your daughter is a designer. Can you create our advertisements?”
“I’ll ask Audrey about it,” my father said light-heartedly, a hint of pride in his voice. Actually, the town electrician was one of our most important clients. While it was colloquially called the “town electrician,” in reality, it was a full-fledged electrical construction company. They handled everything from installing air conditioners and fiber optic lines to complex electrical wiring. So, whenever our construction company needed electrical work for a remodeling project, we always called on them.
“So Audrey, can you do it for me?” my dad asked, turning to me, his gaze conveying the importance of this partnership. I understood they were an essential business partner, and I respected their work. So, I readily accepted the offer.
Sometime later, I asked my father to deliver the finished advertisement. It turned out to be even better than I had expected, a vibrant and appealing design, and the electrician in town was quite pleased. In addition to the professional mission, he even came to my house to thank me personally, bearing a gift wrapped in a sweet envelope. But it wasn’t the elder electrician I knew well. It was a young man, tall and courteous, who bowed deeply in gratitude.
“I just wanted to thank you for the wonderful job you did,” he said, his voice warm and sincere.
“Who are you?” I asked, a little surprised to see a new face.
“Oh, my name is Jeremiah. My father is the electrician,” he replied, a charming smile gracing his lips. It was Jeremiah, the electrician’s son, who had come to greet me. He was a college graduate, currently helping out in the family business, learning the ropes.
“So, you will eventually become an electrician?” I asked, a sense of curiosity stirring within me.
“I plan to take over the business,” Jeremiah confirmed, his eyes sparkling with ambition.
“Then we might be friends for a long time,” I said, a genuine smile spreading across my face.
“Yes, I would like that as well,” he added, his gaze lingering on me, “especially with an attractive person like you.”
“What, me?” I was genuinely surprised. Attractive? I had not been able to attend school much and, due to my fragile health and limited social circle, had never been in a relationship. Could it be that I was being flirted with? The thought sent a sudden rush of warmth through me, painting my face bright red. I felt my shoulders slump, a childish shyness overcoming me.
In the end, we only exchanged contact information that day, but it wasn’t business contact information. It was our personal details. I had never done anything like this before. The novelty, the unexpected attention, the sheer thrill of it all, made me so nervous that I couldn’t sleep that night.
After that, Jeremiah and I kept in touch. In between our work schedules, we would send each other messages, detailing the day’s events, sharing our hobbies, discussing favorite things, and exploring other interests. It became a daily routine, a lifeline connecting our busy lives. Eventually, the digital conversations blossomed into something more, and we started dating.
However, our relationship was far from conventional. We couldn’t do any of the things that normal couples typically do. First of all, I was too frail to travel far on dates. We could only go out together to a neighborhood park when I was feeling well enough, our outings limited to gentle strolls and quiet conversations on a bench. We were never able to go on a normal date like watching a movie or having dinner out. Another major reason was that our days off simply did not match. Because I was taking on work privately, I was able to take time off freely, arranging my schedule around my health. But that was not the case with Jeremiah. Even on his rare days off, he often received urgent requests to repair household appliances. Moreover, as summer and winter approached, the demand for air conditioner installations and repairs surged, making it not unusual for him to have to work every single day.
Despite all this, despite the fact that I couldn’t do anything that was typical of a normal lover, it didn’t cause me any trouble. We could always keep in touch with each other on our phones, exchanging words, sending messages, sharing our lives in snippets. For me, constantly being in bed with a fever was normal, so the limitations of our dating life felt less like a constraint and more like an extension of my daily reality. We grew our love in this quiet, digital way, nurturing it with words and understanding, and a few years later, we decided to get married.
Chapter 4: The Creeping Demands
I was to move into Jeremiah’s house. Naturally, Jeremiah’s parents knew me well from my father’s business, and my mother-in-law, initially, seemed kind. “Audrey,” she had said, “just take care of the housework as long as it’s not too much for you.”
“I understand,” I had replied, genuinely grateful for her apparent consideration.
My father-in-law was also kind to me in the beginning. “When you have time, will you make some of those traditional pop-ups for the store? For our advertising?” he asked me, referencing my design skills.
“I’ll take care of it,” I replied, pleased to be able to contribute.
“I’ll leave it to you. Thank you,” he had said, a smile on his face.
I thought I was getting along wonderfully with my new in-laws because of this initial warmth, but that was only in the beginning. Gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, my mother-in-law began to ask me to take care of various things, the requests subtly increasing in frequency and scope.
“I’m going to be out of town for a while, so can you watch the store for me?” she asked one day, her tone casual, almost conversational.
“Sure, but I’m working too,” I said, a slight hesitation in my voice.
“Just stay at the counter. You can work there too, right?” she suggested, making it sound like a perfectly reasonable arrangement.
“If you don’t mind if I bring my laptop, I’ll take care of it,” I responded, already feeling the pressure to comply.
“I don’t mind at all,” my mother-in-law agreed, her smile unwavering.
In this way, my mother-in-law began to ask me to watch the store more and more often. My father-in-law also started asking me for favors that ventured beyond my established skills. “Could you make a website for the store?” he inquired, his request catching me off guard.
“What? I’m not an expert,” I replied, genuinely taken aback. Creating a professional website was not my specialty; it required a different skill set than graphic design.
“Just something simple, okay? Please?” he added, his voice cajoling. Despite my hesitation, my father-in-law pushed me into creating a website for the electronics company. It was a struggle, requiring me to learn new software and concepts, but I did it.
After that, my in-laws would ask me to do something for them at every opportunity. One after another, they would ask me to do “this, that, and the other.” It was a never-ending stream of demands, chipping away at my time, my energy, my own work.
Eventually, my mother-in-law graduated to even more direct demands regarding household chores. “Audrey, I’m sorry, but could you do the cleaning for me?” she stated one morning, not asked, but stated.
“What? I have work to do, too,” I retorted, a flicker of resistance sparking within me.
“What are you talking about? You’re the wife. Can’t you at least do that?” she insisted, her voice sharp, leaving no room for argument.
“Yes, yes,” I replied, the fight draining out of me. In the end, I was forced to do the cleaning. Once I took on the job, there was no backing down. After cleaning, there was cooking, then laundry, and gradually the amount of housework increased exponentially. I was also made to take care of the store, often for entire days.
The relentless demands meant I couldn’t do my own work, my freelance graphic design. I had no choice but to cut back drastically on all my projects. Naturally, my income decreased, plummeting from what it once was. But I was already married, and Jeremiah was paying for my living expenses, so I wasn’t that worried about the financial aspect. But that wasn’t the problem. The real problem was the toll it took on my fragile health.
“I think I have a fever today,” I said one morning, my voice weak, my body finally succumbing to the exhaustion. I was so tired that I’d finally caught a fever again, a familiar enemy. I told my mother-in-law, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to rest for a while.”
When I told her, her face hardened. She wasn’t happy. “I can’t believe you’d get a fever over something like that,” she muttered, her disapproval palpable. But then, as if realizing she needed to soften her tone, she added, “Oh, yes, yes, I understand. Just go back to bed.” She said this casually, dismissively, and quickly left the room.
Huh? I might have offended her, I thought, a pang of regret in my chest, even as my body screamed for rest. But it was true that my body wasn’t listening to me, so there was nothing I could do about it. I lay down on the bed, feeling utterly defeated.
After a while, Jeremiah came in, his face etched with concern. “Are you okay?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” I replied, feeling a wave of guilt, as if my illness was an inconvenience to him.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” he continued, gently stroking my hair.
“I know, but your parents…” I began, my voice trailing off. I tried to explain to Jeremiah that I had no choice, that my in-laws had forced me into doing all the chores, that saying no felt impossible given the delicate family dynamics.
But then Jeremiah looked at me suspiciously, a strange expression on his face. “Why don’t you just say no?” he uttered, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
“But I…” I started, feeling a fresh wave of frustration. What are you talking about? I wanted to scream. “You’re an adult. You should at least express your opinion,” he interrupted, cutting me off, his tone laced with a surprising impatience.
Jeremiah didn’t understand anything. If this were a proper job, a client making unreasonable demands, I would definitely say no. I had learned how to set boundaries in my professional life. But the other party was my in-laws, his parents. If I rejected my mother-in-law, it might cause problems later on, fracturing the already fragile peace of our new marriage. It was the same with my father-in-law. If I complained, if I pushed back, and my father-in-law hated me, he might say, “Get a divorce.” I knew it was probably just me thinking too much, catastrophizing, but I couldn’t help but think about it, couldn’t help but fear the repercussions. This was why I could not disobey my in-laws.
Aside from that, I was profoundly saddened that Jeremiah didn’t understand me, that he didn’t grasp the nuances of the situation, or the inherent power imbalance. I couldn’t believe he didn’t understand me either, couldn’t see the pressure I was under. I felt utterly alone in my in-laws’ house, isolated and unheard. Thinking of that, the tears finally came, hot and stinging, rolling down my temples and into my pillow. However, this kind of emotional struggle, this internal battle, was becoming quite common. I mustn’t lose, I told myself, wiping my eyes, trying to steel my resolve.
After that, when the fever subsided, my mother-in-law again asked me to run errands for her, to perform more chores, to take on more responsibilities. I reduced my own workload even further, sacrificing my career, and complied with her request as much as I could. In this way, I tried, desperately, to get back into the good graces of my parents-in-law, hoping that my obedience would eventually earn me their approval, their respect.
Chapter 5: The $500 Verdict and the Father’s Fury
One day, after this pattern of escalating demands and my quiet compliance had been firmly established, my mother-in-law suddenly asked me a question that, in hindsight, marked the true beginning of the end.
“Audrey, how is your work going?” she inquired, her voice deceptively casual.
“Well, I’m continuing little by little,” I replied, trying to keep my tone neutral, a practiced answer to deflect further probing.
“Yes,” she hummed. “How much money do you earn now?” she continued, her eyes fixed on me with an unnerving intensity.
“Huh? That’s none of your business, is it?” I answered sharply, a rare burst of defiance escaping me. I knew what she was doing. She was fishing for information, and I instinctively bristled at the intrusion.
“It does matter,” she said, her grin widening, a sly, calculating expression on her face. “Prices have been going up lately, and if you could just give me some money for living expenses…” she trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.
As far as I could tell, the electrician’s business, their business, had not suffered. Rather, as prices had risen across the board, more and more people were looking for energy-efficient home appliances. Thanks to this, jobs such as air conditioner installation were even increasing. They were sometimes even asked by major electronics retailers to provide support. If anything, their income should have been increasing, not decreasing. That’s what I thought, what I observed. However, my mother-in-law was hinting, quite explicitly, that she did not have enough money to make ends meet, that she needed my money.
Feeling a strange mixture of confusion and unease, and not wanting to reveal my true income for fear of even greater demands, I decided to tell her a smaller, more palatable amount. “My income is also tight. I also have housework, so right now my monthly income is about $500,” I said, hoping that figure would satisfy her, or at least deter her.
“What? $500?” she wondered, her eyes widening, not with disappointment, but with a dawning, malicious glee.
“Yes, $500 a month is not so bad if you think of it as a part-time job,” I repeated, trying to justify the low figure, trying to make it seem acceptable.
My mother-in-law suddenly turned bright red, not from embarrassment, but from indignation. “Only $500? And you don’t even do much housework?” she uttered, her voice rising to an indignant shriek.
I think I do a fair amount of housework, I thought, a fresh wave of anger washing over me. Her accusations were unfounded, baseless. I do all the cooking and cleaning these days. I even take care of the store and do the laundry when my mother-in-law is not around! The injustice of it all burned within me.
As I was silently fuming, she declared, her eyes blazing, “Wait a minute. I’ll go talk to your father.” And with that, she spun on her heel and ran to my father-in-law, clearly to relay her “findings.”
A few minutes later, my mother-in-law returned, my father-in-law in tow, his face a mask of stern disapproval. “Come with me,” she commanded, not to Jeremiah, but to me.
“What? Where?” I questioned, my heart sinking, dread already coiling in my stomach.
“Your parents’ house,” she replied, her voice cold and final.
My house? I marveled, the word tasting like ashes in my mouth. “I’m returning you,” my mother-in-law said, her statement echoing the cruel pronouncement from earlier that day.
After that, I was forcibly taken to my parents’ house, subjected to the humiliation of being “returned” in front of my father, a public declaration of my supposed worthlessness. In response, my father, his earlier fury now a simmering volcano, had simply said, “I’m going to close my own company.”
As I stood there, reeling, dreading what might come next, my mother-in-law smiled, a patronizing smirk. “You want to close your company? Do you mean your construction company? Is that what you’re talking about?” She was trying to make it explicitly clear, to corner him, to dismiss his threat.
“Yes, there is no other company for me,” my father responded with a thin, dangerous smile, his gaze unblinking.
My father-in-law, finally comprehending the gravity of the situation, sighed, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. “You’re going to destroy the construction company and eliminate our electricians’ business, aren’t you? If that’s the case, what then?” He was trying to call my father’s bluff, to make him back down.
My dad replied, his voice firm, unwavering. “I’m sorry, but we have other clients besides you.”
My father-in-law continued, a hint of desperation in his tone. “There are tons of electrician jobs out there,” he added, trying to sound confident, but his voice cracked slightly.
“Then it’s okay for me to take responsibility for my daughter and shut down my own construction company, isn’t it?” my father asked, looking directly into my father-in-law’s eyes, challenging him.
“Suit yourself,” my father-in-law retorted, his face flushing with impotent rage. “It’s no use trying to coerce me into collapsing together!” In the end, he yelled these final, furious words and stormed away, defeated. My mother-in-law turned to me, her face contorted in a sneer. “You useless wife. You don’t have to come back.”
I was left in a daze, my mind reeling. “Is everything all right, Audrey?” my father asked, his voice filled with concern, his hand gently on my shoulder.
“Um, what should I do, Dad?” I asked, feeling utterly lost, adrift in a sea of confusion and hurt. He said so many hurtful things.
“Wouldn’t it be better to get a divorce?” my dad uttered, his voice quiet but firm.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I replied reluctantly, the words tasting like ash. However, Jeremiah might come for me, I thought, clinging to that fragile hope, a desperate last resort. The most important thing is for Jeremiah to love me, even if my in-laws don’t.
But Jeremiah did not come for me, no matter how long I waited. Days stretched into an agonizing silence. After a few days, I finally received a message from Jeremiah. It contained only three devastating words: Let’s get divorced.
I wasn’t convinced. I kept sending messages to Jeremiah, desperate for an explanation, for a sign of the love I thought we shared, but he never responded. Then, Jeremiah’s lawyer called me. “Jeremiah’s parents have persuaded him to divorce you,” he informed me, his voice professional, detached.
I could not say anything. The words caught in my throat, choked by a sudden, overwhelming wave of grief and betrayal. I agreed to the divorce, accepting the alimony and other conditions that Jeremiah offered, a cold, clinical end to what I had believed was a genuine love story. Thus, my marriage, which had lasted less than a year, came to an abrupt and heartbreaking end.
Chapter 6: The Unraveling and the Reckoning
At the same time, my father’s construction company also closed its doors, just as he had promised. However, it did not stop completely. In fact, my brother, with my parents’ blessing and financial support, took over the construction company. The location and name of the company remained the same, a familiar landmark in the community, but he cut all ties with Jeremiah’s family business, severing the partnership that had once seemed so vital.
Naturally, this hit Jeremiah’s family’s business hard. Their primary contractor, a steady source of income, had vanished overnight. Still, they had other clients and managed somehow, struggling but not completely collapsing. But they weren’t safe, especially since the story of my “return” and my father’s subsequent actions became a huge rumor around town. The community, fiercely loyal to my family, began to shun Jeremiah’s business. Gradually, Jeremiah’s family started to be avoided, their reputation tarnished. More and more requests for electrical work, previously directed their way, were now made to the electricians’ company that my brother had quickly partnered with.
This continued, a slow, inexorable decline, until finally, rumors spread that Jeremiah’s business was going under, teetering on the brink of bankruptcy.
“This will teach him a lesson,” my father said one day, a satisfied glint in his eyes. My mother and I, nursing our own hurts and seeing the justice in it, thought so too.
But then, the wind suddenly changed. It was the summer of the following year, a season notorious for its demand for air conditioning. I was in my brother’s construction company office, helping with some design work, when we received a phone call. “Excuse me, the air conditioner seems to have broken down,” said a frantic voice, a client whose house my brother had recently remodeled.
When my brother went to check on it, he found something disturbing: the outdoor unit of the air conditioner had been deliberately broken, vandalized. “That’s terrible, even for a prank,” my brother muttered, his jaw tight with anger. He consulted with the family and immediately reported it to the police. My brother then contacted his new electrician partner and had the air conditioner replaced, absorbing the cost for his valued client.
But this wasn’t the only case. The same thing happened again and again, a malicious pattern emerging. Another client called, then another. My brother’s construction company alone could not handle the sudden, inexplicable surge of damaged air conditioners. The story goes that the affected people, desperate for repairs, reluctantly asked Jeremiah’s family for help, having few other options.
“We are receiving more and more similar requests and the fee will be charged at a premium,” my ex-father-in-law announced, grinning, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Is that okay with you?” he asked one of the affected clients, clearly exploiting their vulnerability. “The number of people in need is increasing,” he added, attempting to justify the exorbitant, premium charge.
It was unacceptable, infuriating, to charge more for repairs just because demand was rising, especially under such suspicious circumstances. I was furious, my blood boiling with indignation, but I reminded myself it had nothing to do with me anymore. There was nothing I could do but give up, to let fate play out.
But my brother was different. His sense of justice was as strong as my father’s. “I’ll find the culprit,” he declared, his voice ringing with determination. He asked for the cooperation of several of his clients, those whose air conditioners had been mysteriously damaged.
I wondered what he was going to do, what ingenious plan he would devise. But what he did was very simple. He lent them an intercom for free.
“Why an intercom?” I asked, puzzled.
“Intercoms nowadays have a video recording function,” he explained, a knowing look in his eye. “Some even have sensors, so they can be used in place of security cameras.”
“I don’t think it will be that easy,” I said skeptically, still unsure of his strategy.
But within three days, the culprits were caught. Moreover, it was Jeremiah’s parents who were caught. They had broken into houses in the middle of the night and deliberately destroyed the air conditioners, creating work for themselves because they had lost clients due to their greed and malicious behavior. When questioned by the police, they confessed to such selfish motives, their carefully constructed façade of respectability crumbling under the weight of their own criminal actions.
I was reminded of the term “mutual collapse” that my ex-father-in-law had uttered with such venom. If my father quit the construction business, Jeremiah’s business would be in jeopardy. Perhaps he knew this and used the term deliberately, a veiled threat. At any rate, the arrest of my former in-laws triggered the complete and utter collapse of Jeremiah’s family’s electronics shop. It was a spectacular, self-inflicted implosion.
Apparently, Jeremiah has now started working at a demolition job site, trying to pay for the massive damages and legal fees his parents’ crimes had incurred. One of the electricians who worked at my brother’s construction company told me he saw him there, covered in dust, a shadow of his former self. But honestly, I don’t care. I sympathize with him, perhaps, for the unfortunate turn his life has taken, but I don’t want to get involved anymore. My chapter with them is closed.
Besides, I’m happy now. I work as a graphic designer, my passion rekindled, and I also look after the store at my brother’s construction company, a comfortable, supportive environment. I can work at my own pace, my health no longer a constant source of guilt or constraint. And best of all, I don’t have nagging in-laws, no one to demand, to demean, to dictate my worth.
There is one small problem, though. My father is retired, and now that he has more free time, he has redirected all his protective energies towards me. He keeps asking, “Are you tired? Are you okay?” He’s always around, always talking to me, his concern a constant, gentle hum in my life.
“If you’re so bored, why don’t you get a job, too?” I teased him one day, a playful glint in my eye. “I think it’s cooler to have a working dad.”
As soon as I said that, my father, with a renewed sense of purpose, started working again at my brother’s construction company, happily taking on new responsibilities. It seems that my father truly loves me, perhaps even more now. But I love my father, too, so we are even. My life, once dictated by frailty and the cruel whims of others, is now truly my own.
