I Didn’t Raise Him for Another Woman

We were living in a two-bedroom apartment, so I decided to rent out the baby’s future room for nine months. We had two visits. A young man in his twenties asked if he could throw parties; he saw in our eyes that his question had just taken him out of our top five. Then a future language teacher. She was the one. She worked a lot, left early, came back late, never invited anyone, didn’t smoke, barely talked. Everything I liked. Everything I needed. She paid us $500 a month, in cash, in an envelope I kept in our bedroom. Over nine months, we could hope to put aside $4,000 or $4,500, since one more person adds to the bills. Except one day, I realized the count was off. The money was shrinking. “Do you take money from this envelope? There’s like $400 missing.” “Yes,” he said, without even stuttering. “For what?” “Drinks. And clothes.” Good thing I was pregnant, because I could see myself jumping on him. “You realize this money is for the baby?” “I’ll put it back.” “When? Explain to me how you’re going to put back money that was supposed to be extra, when you have your salary. What do you do with your salary?” “Well, I have a trip. And the boxing sessions. I got myself a personal trainer.” “So you’re taking your future baby’s money to pay for your boxing sessions.” He wanted to leave for work. I followed him out. Neither of us had our keys. The door shut behind us, and we had to wait for the locksmith. In silence. Only one sentence came out of my mouth: “You’re going to pay me back, from now on, this money goes into my account.”