"Starbucks? Twenty-eight dollars for bitter water? Does Alex print money? You're sitting at home doing nothing and drinking coffee this expensive—you're drinking my son's blood!"

"And what's this? Yoga classes? Two thousand dollars? You learning poses or learning to burn cash? Mop the floor—you'll lose the weight anyway!"

Every line, she lifted her head to glare at me, spit flying. Alex nodded along beside her like a bobblehead. "Yes, yes, Mom's right. The yoga class really isn't necessary. We won't sign up again."

Lola slapped the phone onto the coffee table and announced:

"This can't go on. From now on, Alex's paycheck goes to me. You want to spend money? File a request. A stalk of scallions, a head of garlic—you explain to me exactly how much and why."

I crossed my arms. "And the IVF next month? The deposit alone is $30,000."

I'd been trying to get pregnant for two years with no luck. Quitting my job, staying home to rest—it was all to prepare for IVF.

Lola sighed dramatically. "We've spent so much money and your belly's still flat. I don't think there's any rush to throw more at it. I know a folk remedy—drink enough of it and you'll definitely conceive."

I didn't say another word. Turned around, went back to the bedroom, pulled out my phone, and dialed my former boss directly.

"Hello, Mr. Lambert. That project—do you still need people? Yes. I can start anytime."

Since everyone thinks I'm a reckless spender, fine. I won't spend a dime.

Let's see what kind of life the Finch family can live without me, the "spendthrift woman."

I cut off the supply completely.

When the toilet paper ran out, it got replaced by the stuff Lola bought by the pound at the morning market. Rough as sandpaper—one wipe and it shed crumbs. Press too hard and it'd scrape you raw.

The organic vegetables that used to fill the fridge? Gone. Now it was wilted clearance greens from the supermarket's 8 p.m. markdown bin, and freezer-burned mystery meat that had been frozen since god knows when.

Lola was actually pretty pleased with herself, holding my annual food delivery statement and jabbing at it:

"Look! On food delivery alone, you blew over five grand in a year! That's all gutter oil—eat that and you'll die young!"

She turned and marched straight to the kitchen, chopping vegetables with aggressive thuds, announcing she was making Alex a "healthy, home-cooked lunch."