The Unsigned Indenture

I watched my husband's awards ceremony from the kitchen, the thud of my cleaver against pork ribs keeping a grim rhythm.
The host asked him who he was most grateful for at this moment.
He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his voice smooth and cultured. I want to thank my late wife, Evelyn. It was she who taught me the true soul of literature.
My hand faltered, the cleaver nearly slicing my finger.
Bloody water from the ribs splattered onto my apron, like a rotted crimson flower.
Eight years.
I am the legal wife on his marriage certificate, the full-time caregiver for his paralyzed mother.
But in his acceptance speech, I was nothing but air.
1
At seven that evening, Aidan Croft returned home with his star student and a few colleagues.
The heat was cranked up high. They shed their heavy coats, revealing exquisite suits and evening dresses underneath.
Aidans mother was having a good day. She sat in her wheelchair as he pushed her to the center of the living room to receive greetings from his students.
"Your mother looks wonderful, Professor. You take such meticulous care of her."
"It's true. With his wife having passed so early, it can't be easy for the professor to manage his academic work and care for his elderly mother all alone."
Everyone was sighing over Aidans deep love and his difficult life.
I emerged from the kitchen carrying a tureen of duck soup that had been simmering for three hours. The rich, savory steam filled the room.
A young female student turned to me and smiled sweetly. "Ma'am, could you please bring two more sets of bowls and spoons? And a small dish for vinegar."
The living room fell silent for two seconds.
No one corrected her.
Aidan was pouring tea for that same student. Without even lifting his eyes, he said, "Go get them. And be quick about it."
In that instant, I felt like a half-evolved ape that had stumbled into a party of civilized human beings.
I looked down at my own faded house clothes, at the plastic slippers stained with grease.
I did look like the help.
Worse than the help, actually. At least they earned an hourly wage. I only got a fixed five thousand a month for household expenses.
I turned back to the kitchen, a sour bitterness rising in my throat like bile.
When I returned with the bowls, Aidan was standing at the entrance to his study, lighting incense before a portrait of Evelyn.
In the photo, Evelyn wore a black evening gown, seated at a piano, as elegant as a swan.
I walked over to place the offering dishes. As I did, Aidan turned and bumped into me.
Crash.
A bowl of scalding hot duck soup tipped over, right on the edge of the memorial table.
I knew how precious this space was to him. I instinctively threw my hand out to block the spill.
The soup splashed everywhere, but a few drops still hit the bottom edge of the photo frame.
"What are you doing?!"
Aidan recoiled like a cat whose tail had been stepped on and shoved me, hard.
I stumbled back, hitting the doorframe.
The back of my hand was already turning a fiery red from the burn.
But Aidan didn't even glance at me.
He frantically pulled out a handkerchief and began wiping the photo frame with painstaking care, his movements as gentle as if he were caressing a lover's face.
"You clumsy oaf! Can't you do anything right?"
He glared back at me, his eyes fierce enough to eat me alive.
"On a day as important as this, you just had to ruin it, didn't you?"
At that moment, the searing pain on my hand was nothing compared to the ice forming in my heart.
The students exchanged uneasy glances. The one who had called me "ma'am" whispered, "The professor's love for his late wife is so deep. He can't even bear to see her photo damaged."
"Yes, it's a love that transcends death."
And just like that, they were all praising this earth-shattering romance again.
I clutched my swelling hand and retreated into the shadows of the corner.
I watched the man I had served for eight years lavish his affection on a photograph of a dead woman.
I watched these highly educated elites ignore the living, breathing person right in front of them.
Suddenly, I felt like my entire eight years with him had been a joke.
I was the Croft family's maid, Aidans mother's caregiver, everything but Aidan's wife.
The string I had kept taut for eight years finally, in that one single moment, snapped.
I was done serving them.
2
I skipped dinner and went straight to my bedroom.
It was less a bedroom and more a guest room converted from a storage closet.
The master bedroom was where Aidan slept alone. Or rather, where he slept with the "memories" of Evelyn.
He only ever graced my room when he had needs. When he required me to fulfill my wifely duties.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
My face was sallow, fine lines webbing the corners of my eyes. My hair was as dry and brittle as straw. I didn't look thirty-five. I could have passed for fifty.
The girl who was once the prettiest in her town had withered into a weed.
I remembered when I first came to the Croft house.
The filth, the foul smells, and the handsome, helpless Aidan.
His mother, paralyzed and bitter, had been abusive to every caregiver, driving them all away within three days.
Then I came. And I stayed.
I stayed because of the look of utter helplessness and pleading on his face when I first tried to quit.
I stayed because of the undisguised joy in his eyes when I agreed to remain.
Later, my family called, telling me to come home for an arranged marriage.
I tried to resign again.
Aidan had said to me, "A blind marriage is an irresponsible way to live. You know this family, and you know me. I'll marry you."
Thinking of the deep love in his eyes when he looked at his late wife's photo, some devil in me made me agree.
Because I wanted him to look at me like that, too.
I thought, if I waited long enough, he would.
The house gradually quieted down as the guests left.
Aidan pushed my door open. He was holding a plastic bag.
"For you."
He tossed it onto the bed.
It was a pair of knee braces. Wool. They looked thick and warm.
My heart skipped. Was it because he saw my burned hand and felt guilty?
Or was it because today was our wedding anniversary? Hed never remembered it before, but maybe subconsciously he wanted to be kind to me?
For a fleeting second, a flicker of that stupid, womanly fantasy flared up.
I reached for the knee braces, about to say something soft.
Aidan loosened his tie, his tone cool.
"Mom's arthritis acts up this time of year. These are good quality. Make sure she wears them tonight."
"And try to be quicker when she calls you at night. Don't let her wet the bed. The smell lingers in the house."
My outstretched hand froze in mid-air.
I felt like a clown whod just been slapped in front of a crowd.
They weren't for me.
They were a tool for his mother.
And I was just the person who operated the tool.
"Also," Aidan said, not even looking at me as he turned to leave, "you spilled that soup. Mop the floor again in the morning. Make sure there's no smell. And don't you ever touch Evelyn's memorial table again."
I tried to smile, but my face twisted into something uglier than a sob.
"Aidan."
I called his name.
He stopped, turning back with a questioning look. "What is it?"
"I want a divorce."
Four words. I said them quietly, but clearly.
Aidan stared at me for a moment, then let out a short, dismissive laugh.
He looked at me like I was a child throwing a tantrum. He pulled out his wallet and took out a thick wad of cash.
Maybe two or three thousand dollars.
He slapped it onto the nightstand.
"Upset that the students mistook you for the help? Fine. Take this, buy some decent clothes. I'm tired. Don't make trouble."
He walked out without a backward glance.
I followed him.
He didn't go to the master bedroom. He went to the study.
The door was slightly ajar.
I never went in there alone. Even cleaning it required his permission.
Through the crack, I saw Aidan sitting at the Steinway piano.
It had been Evelyn's favorite, Id heard.
His long fingers gently caressed the keys, his eyes so tender they could have dripped water, as if he were stroking his lovers skin.
It was a look I had never, not for a single second in eight years, received.
He murmured to the empty air, "Evelyn, I won the award today. If only you were here"
I pushed the door open.
Aidans head snapped around, the tenderness in his eyes instantly turning to shards of ice.
"Who let you in here? Get out!"
I looked at the gleaming black piano, then at the man who was supposedly my husband.
"I'm serious. I want a divorce."
This time, Aidan didn't even bother to turn his head. He pressed a key, a single, clear note ringing out.
"Linda, I just transferred you this month's household money yesterday. If you want more, just say so. Don't resort to these cheap tactics."
In his eyes, every emotion I had could be converted into a dollar amount.
I looked at his face, still so handsome and refined.
A wave of nausea washed over me.
It was more sickening than looking at a bedsheet soaked in piss and shit.
"I am serious. We are getting divorced tomorrow."
I turned and closed the door, shutting the man who was drowning in memories of his dead wife inside his own tomb.
3
Two in the morning.
A muffled thud came from his mothers room.
I shot up from my bed on pure instinct and rushed next door.
I called for Aidan. His room was empty.
He had probably gone to the cemetery in the middle of the night to visit his beloved late wife again.
His mother was having a seizure. Her body convulsed like a fish out of water, white foam frothing at her lips, her eyes rolling back in her head.
Turn her on her side, clear her airway, prevent her from biting her tongue, apply pressure to the philtrum.
I had performed this routine for eight years. It was as familiar as breathing.
Once she had calmed a little, I hoisted the 130-pound woman onto my back.
I only weigh ninety pounds.
But I carried her down three flights of stairs, step by agonizing step, my calves trembling.
I called a cab and went straight to the hospital.
I tried calling Aidan on the way. No answer.
I had to send him a text.
At the emergency room, I registered her, found a doctor, and wheeled her to get a CT scan.
I was in my pajamas and slippers, my hair a mess, my clothes still stained with vomit.
This was my life.
"Where's the family? Someone needs to go pay." The doctor glanced at my attire, hesitating. "You're the caregiver, right? Can you contact a direct relative?"
"I'm her"
"I'm her son!"
The sound of hurried footsteps came from behind me.
Aidan had finally arrived.
He was in a crisp suit, his hair perfectly coiffed. I could even smell his cologne.
It was called "Encounter," supposedly Evelyn's favorite.
He, so refined and elegant, and I, so disheveled and pathetic, looked like we belonged to two different species.
The doctors face immediately broke into a smile. "Ah, Professor Croft! You're such a devoted son, rushing over in the middle of the night."
Aidan smiled modestly, a perfect picture of a cultured, scholarly gentleman.
After the doctor left, he finally turned and saw me.
The smile vanished, replaced by his usual look of reproach.
"What happened? Why did she suddenly have an episode? Did you feed her the wrong thing for dinner? What kind of care are you providing?"
His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear enough for everyone nearby to hear.
That was his logic.
If she was sick, it was my fault.
If she was well, it was his devotion.
I didn't say a word. I just silently lifted his mother from the gurney to the hospital bed, adjusted her pillow, and pulled the covers over her.
Aidan just stood there and watched.
Since the day I'd moved in, he hadn't done a single household chore. He hadn't even poured his own mother a glass of water.
Because, as he said, that was my job.
The woman in the next bed couldn't help but chime in. "Wow, this lady is amazing, so quick and capable. You must be the family's caregiver, right? So professional. I wish I could find someone like you."
My hand, which was wiping his mother's mouth, froze.
Aidan paused.
I just looked at him.
Waiting. Hoping he would say, "This is my wife," or at least just brush off the comment.
But after three seconds of silence, Aidan nodded and said flatly, "Yes. She's very professional."
Boom.
The last thread of sanity in my mind snapped completely.
Those three seconds of silence were a million times more cruel than his insults.
They murdered the last shred of unrealistic hope I had for him. They murdered all eight years of my devotion.
I threw the towel I was holding at him.
"As of right now, I officially quit. You can take care of her yourself!"
I turned and walked away.
Aidan hissed at my back, "Linda! Have you lost your mind? This is a hospital!"
I didn't look back. I just walked faster.
It wasn't until I stepped out of the hospital doors and the cold wind hit my face that I realized it was covered in tears.
But my heart felt lighter than it had in years.
4
Back at that so-called "home," I started packing.
I didn't have much.
A few changes of clothes, and almost nothing else that was truly mine.
In his study, at the very bottom of a drawer, I found our "marriage agreement."
It wasn't a marriage certificate. It was a lifetime indenture contract.
It clearly stated: Party B (me) is responsible for all living needs of Party A's mother. Party A (Aidan) will pay Party B a monthly living expense. During the marriage, Party B shall not interfere with Party A's private space
I tore it to shreds.
Next to it was a ledger. His expense journal for the past eight years.
He was meticulous about bookkeeping; every expense was clearly recorded.
I'd never paid it much attention before, but now, flipping through it was like being stabbed with every word.
April 2018, maintenance for Evelyn's gravesite. Note: Beloved Wife Fund, $5,000.
June 2018, dental work for Linda. Note: Labor Maintenance Fee, $800.
...
So that's what I was in his eyes. No different from the washing machine that needed repairs.
Looking at entry after entry, I felt the blood in my veins run cold. My stomach churned, and I ran to the bathroom and dry-heaved for what felt like an eternity.
I took off the winter coat he had given me and threw it on the floor, stomping on it.
It had a small "E" embroidered on the label.
E for Evelyn.
I left behind everything he had labeled as "Labor Supplies" in his ledger.
Including the plain gold ring that weighed barely two grams.
He'd bought it for our wedding, saying he didn't like extravagance, that simple was better.
It turned out he didn't dislike extravagance. He just disliked spending money on me.
When I was done packing, all I had was a single, worn-out duffel bag.
This was my eight years.
The lock turned. Aidan was back.
He frowned at the mess in the house, his eyes filled with displeasure.
"Linda, have you made enough of a scene? Mom is still in the hospital. What are you doing back here? Clean this up and get back to the hospital!"
I was still dressed in my cheap clothes, but for the first time, I stood up straight.
I placed the now-bent gold ring on the coffee table with a soft clink.
And then I smiled.
It was the first time in eight years I had smiled so freely, so recklessly, in this house.
"Professor Croft, your free maid, Linda, has officially resigned."
"Oh, and I threw that coat in the trash. Dead people's things are bad luck. They give me the creeps."
Aidans face changed color, as if he'd been brutally slapped.
"What did you say?"
"I said, I'll see you at City Hall at eight tomorrow morning. Also, since I'm a professional caregiver, you can wire me my eight years of back pay. Don't even think about stiffing me. I'd hate to lose all respect for you."
With that, I ignored him, picked up my duffel bag, and strode across the still-damp soup stain on the floor.

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