His Side Chick Made Him Dump Me… 100 Times! Now Watch Him Beg! - Chapter 75: Chapter 75
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"Prenatal appointments, supplements, delivery costs, then education and child-rearing expenses later... We're talking about a massive twenty-plus-year financial commitment."
His tone was as flat as reading a balance sheet.
"We need to restructure our family budget, and the fifty-fifty arrangement will need some... adjustments."
Adjustments?
I looked at him—this face I'd seen every day for three years—and for the first time, he looked terrifyingly foreign.
"Marcus," my voice shook, "I'm carrying your child, and you want to talk budgets? Talk about splitting costs?"
He seemed totally oblivious to the ice in my voice, just nodded earnestly: "Exactly, we need to hash this out. Like prenatal care—technically that's direct medical expenses for your body, so that portion..."
"Shut up!" I grabbed a throw pillow and hurled it at him, tears streaming down my face.
He dodged it smoothly, his frown deepening: "Evie, calm down. Financial planning is the foundation of a stable marriage. We need to approach this rationally. Having a baby means we need to restructure our responsibility-sharing model..."
"Get out!" I pointed at the door, my voice cracking.
That night, he took his blanket and slept in the study.
With just a wall between us, I rubbed my still-flat belly and realized for the first time that the plastic divider in our fridge had been standing between our hearts all along.
Later, prenatal appointments became torture sessions.
Every single trip to the doctor—registration, payments, tests—Marcus shadowed me like a hawk.
But he wasn't being a caring husband; he was a cold accountant clutching a calculator, ready to hit that "÷2" button at any moment.
At my first ultrasound, seeing that tiny gestational sac on the screen made me tear up with joy.
The doctor smiled: "Look, baby's looking healthy."
Marcus leaned in for a glance, nodded, then turned to me with complete naturalness: "Evie, today's appointment plus registration was $85. Venmo me $42.50."
The room went dead silent.
The meaningful glances between the doctor and nurse pricked at my face like needles.
I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.
Marcus was completely oblivious, pulling out his phone and opening that familiar budgeting app:
"Let me log this now. Category: 8-week ultrasound. Amount: $85. Split between: Evelyn, Marcus. Individual share: $42.50 each."
"Marcus!" I whispered, my voice breaking, "Do you have to do this right now?"
He looked genuinely confused: "We'll have to settle up eventually, might as well record it now so we don't forget. It's about principle."
He paused, then added, "Don't worry, for pregnancy-related expenses, I'll strictly cover the percentage that's the father's responsibility."
Responsibility?
In his mouth, it was just a cold percentage.
Walking out of the exam room, I immediately yanked my hand away from his.
In the elevator going home, people packed in all around me.
He was still quietly confirming with me: "Oh, and parking was $3.50, so you owe me $1.75. Plus that bottle of water I got you from the convenience store downstairs—$2.50, so transfer me $1.25..."
Everyone in the elevator was staring.
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.
As soon as I got home, morning sickness hit me like a tidal wave.
I was throwing up violently, dry heaving bile, completely drained and collapsed next to the toilet.
Marcus stood in the bathroom doorway, frowning.
He wasn't worried about me—he was worried about his freshly mopped floors.
"Evie, try to hold it together, aim for the toilet. I just used that imported cleaner on the floor. If it gets messy, I'll have to buy more, and that's not cost-effective."
I didn't even have the energy to curse him out.
Seeing how violently sick I was, he finally showed a flicker of "compassion."
"Maybe... I should get you some anti-nausea medication? I heard there's an imported brand that works pretty well." He pulled out his phone, ready to check prices.
I weakly waved him off, barely able to speak: "No need... won't kill me..."
He put his phone away, relieved: "You're probably right. Medications can be harmful, especially for the baby. So maybe you can just... push through a little longer? It'll pass eventually."
His idea of "pushing through" meant keep throwing up, keep avoiding the floor, keep from creating extra expenses.
I closed my eyes, my heart colder than my stomach.
His tone was as flat as reading a balance sheet.
"We need to restructure our family budget, and the fifty-fifty arrangement will need some... adjustments."
Adjustments?
I looked at him—this face I'd seen every day for three years—and for the first time, he looked terrifyingly foreign.
"Marcus," my voice shook, "I'm carrying your child, and you want to talk budgets? Talk about splitting costs?"
He seemed totally oblivious to the ice in my voice, just nodded earnestly: "Exactly, we need to hash this out. Like prenatal care—technically that's direct medical expenses for your body, so that portion..."
"Shut up!" I grabbed a throw pillow and hurled it at him, tears streaming down my face.
He dodged it smoothly, his frown deepening: "Evie, calm down. Financial planning is the foundation of a stable marriage. We need to approach this rationally. Having a baby means we need to restructure our responsibility-sharing model..."
"Get out!" I pointed at the door, my voice cracking.
That night, he took his blanket and slept in the study.
With just a wall between us, I rubbed my still-flat belly and realized for the first time that the plastic divider in our fridge had been standing between our hearts all along.
Later, prenatal appointments became torture sessions.
Every single trip to the doctor—registration, payments, tests—Marcus shadowed me like a hawk.
But he wasn't being a caring husband; he was a cold accountant clutching a calculator, ready to hit that "÷2" button at any moment.
At my first ultrasound, seeing that tiny gestational sac on the screen made me tear up with joy.
The doctor smiled: "Look, baby's looking healthy."
Marcus leaned in for a glance, nodded, then turned to me with complete naturalness: "Evie, today's appointment plus registration was $85. Venmo me $42.50."
The room went dead silent.
The meaningful glances between the doctor and nurse pricked at my face like needles.
I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.
Marcus was completely oblivious, pulling out his phone and opening that familiar budgeting app:
"Let me log this now. Category: 8-week ultrasound. Amount: $85. Split between: Evelyn, Marcus. Individual share: $42.50 each."
"Marcus!" I whispered, my voice breaking, "Do you have to do this right now?"
He looked genuinely confused: "We'll have to settle up eventually, might as well record it now so we don't forget. It's about principle."
He paused, then added, "Don't worry, for pregnancy-related expenses, I'll strictly cover the percentage that's the father's responsibility."
Responsibility?
In his mouth, it was just a cold percentage.
Walking out of the exam room, I immediately yanked my hand away from his.
In the elevator going home, people packed in all around me.
He was still quietly confirming with me: "Oh, and parking was $3.50, so you owe me $1.75. Plus that bottle of water I got you from the convenience store downstairs—$2.50, so transfer me $1.25..."
Everyone in the elevator was staring.
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.
As soon as I got home, morning sickness hit me like a tidal wave.
I was throwing up violently, dry heaving bile, completely drained and collapsed next to the toilet.
Marcus stood in the bathroom doorway, frowning.
He wasn't worried about me—he was worried about his freshly mopped floors.
"Evie, try to hold it together, aim for the toilet. I just used that imported cleaner on the floor. If it gets messy, I'll have to buy more, and that's not cost-effective."
I didn't even have the energy to curse him out.
Seeing how violently sick I was, he finally showed a flicker of "compassion."
"Maybe... I should get you some anti-nausea medication? I heard there's an imported brand that works pretty well." He pulled out his phone, ready to check prices.
I weakly waved him off, barely able to speak: "No need... won't kill me..."
He put his phone away, relieved: "You're probably right. Medications can be harmful, especially for the baby. So maybe you can just... push through a little longer? It'll pass eventually."
His idea of "pushing through" meant keep throwing up, keep avoiding the floor, keep from creating extra expenses.
I closed my eyes, my heart colder than my stomach.
End of His Side Chick Made Him Dump Me… 100 Times! Now Watch Him Beg! Chapter 75. Continue reading Chapter 76 or return to His Side Chick Made Him Dump Me… 100 Times! Now Watch Him Beg! book page.