Settling the Score

Cruel snickers rippled through the cramped living room, feeding off Brenda’s venomous accusation. The mocking jabs about Beatrice’s infertility hung in the stagnant air, sharp and merciless. Every relative in the room knew Beatrice had lost her ability to have children years ago. In their traditional, backward minds, a woman with a barren womb deserved to be thrown out onto the streets. They genuinely believed they were doing her a massive favor by tolerating her presence under their roof.

"Brenda, do not push Beatrice. If she could have kids, she would have by now. It is not like she did not want to. She just can't," one of the older cousins interjected, masking a sneer with false sympathy.

"Exactly," another aunt chimed in, crossing her arms.

Joanne felt her blood boil. She had accompanied Beatrice specifically because she knew Sylvia would orchestrate a tribunal like this. Hearing the mocking voices and seeing the sheer hostility directed at her friend brought tears of frustration to her eyes. She knew the invisible torture Beatrice endured over the years. Infertility was an open wound, and these insensitive vultures were pouring salt directly into it.

Joanne stepped in front of Beatrice, shielding her from the room. She turned and grabbed Beatrice by the arm. "You guys are going too far! How can you talk like that to Bea? Bea, do not take their words to heart. Let us go."

Before they could take a single step toward the front door, Brenda puffed out her chest and marched forward. She used her body to physically block the exit, glaring daggers at Joanne.

"What are you doing here? This is our family business. Stay out of it." Brenda snapped. She then shifted her fierce gaze to her sister-in-law, trying to intimidate her into submission. "If she cannot have kids, then she should not even think about leaving! So, are you still going through with the divorce, or are you going to make nice with my brother?"

Joanne looked around at the ring of relatives. They resembled a pack of hungry wolves circling wounded prey. They were using their sheer numbers to suffocate Beatrice into surrendering.

Beatrice remained unfazed by the hostile crowd. She arched an eyebrow, radiating a dangerous calm that sent a chill through the sweltering room.

"Brenda, you want me to pay you back for everything, huh? And what about the things you owe me?" Beatrice asked, her voice cutting clean through the noise.

Brenda stuck her chin out in a defiant pout. "Yeah, you owe us."

Beatrice raised her hand and began ticking the debts off on her fingers for the entire room to hear. "Let us count, shall we? First, when I married Richard, my family gave me two heavy gold wedding bracelets. You told me I should take them off while doing the housework so I would not ruin them. I left them on the dresser, and you brazenly took both of them."

She pushed down a second finger. "Second, remember when you went to college? Sylvia and Richard could not afford the fees. I paid your expensive tuition out of my own pocket. Do you want me to calculate how much those gold bracelets and your yearly seven-hundred-dollar tuition are worth today with inflation?"

Hearing the past dragged into the harsh light, Sylvia bristled with outrage. Her face turned a patchy red from her wheelchair. "You gave the bracelets and paid the tuition willingly! You cannot just take them back and call it a debt."

"Yeah, you gave them because you wanted to. I never forced you to pay for my school," Brenda muttered. She shifted her weight, clearly rattled by the sudden shift in momentum.

Beatrice offered a cold scoff. "You guys really have short memories, do not you? Uncle Winston was worried I would get screwed over by this family, so he made Brenda sign a formal IOU. I still have it locked away."

Brenda’s face went stiff. She tried desperately to deny the legal standing of the financial debt. "That was ages ago. It does not have any legal standing now."

"Fine. You do not want to pay up? I will have Uncle Winston settle this for us," Beatrice replied with calculated precision. She let her gaze sweep over the stunned relatives, dismantling their facade piece by piece. "Over all these years, Brenda has been coming to me for cash every couple of months. I kept it a secret from Richard because you all know how much he hates it when I fund her lifestyle."

Beatrice paused, letting a sly, knowing smile spread across her lips. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her smartphone.

"Oh, by the way. Remember that time Brenda swiped Richard's cherished vintage watch and sold it for cash? I still have the security footage saved right here. Want me to tell Richard about it right now, or should I just call the cops?"

She waved her phone in the air. The threat hung heavy in the room. Richard and Brenda’s relationship had always been volatile. Richard considered his sister a massive drain on the family resources. Years ago, Brenda had involved one of Richard’s colleagues in a shady pyramid scheme, nearly ruining the man’s life. After that disaster, Richard had cut his sister off. If he found out she stole his prized watch, he would destroy her.

Brenda’s face burned a bright, humiliating crimson. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. The aggression bled out of her posture, leaving her neutralized and mute.

Sylvia slumped back in her wheelchair, horrified. She had always turned a blind eye to Brenda’s antics to keep the family problems behind closed doors. Now, Beatrice was airing their dirty laundry for every judgmental cousin and aunt to witness.

Having silenced her loudest critic, Beatrice stood tall in the suffocating silence.

"I have packed my bags. Once I am formally divorced from Richard, I will sell this house. You better find a place to stay as soon as possible," Beatrice commanded.

Without sparing the frozen relatives another glance, she turned and marched into the bedroom. She grabbed the handle of her heavy suitcase and strode back out, pulling the luggage across the threshold.

"Joanne, let us go," she said.

The chaotic hum of the city streets provided a stark contrast to the oppressive air of the Vance apartment. Joanne sat in the back of the moving taxi, still reeling from the encounter. She stared at Beatrice in awe, amazed by her fierce courage.

"Bea, you were amazing! How did you have the guts to talk to Sylvia like that?" Joanne clapped her hands together. Most women in their generation were conditioned to swallow their pride and endure. They were expected to care for demanding elderly parents, raise children, and serve their spouses without a single complaint. The idea of standing up to a tyrannical mother-in-law was unthinkable.

Beatrice stared out the passenger window, watching the blur of passing storefronts. She remained composed. The immense, heavy emotional burden of the Vance family was finally beginning to lift from her shoulders.

"What is amazing about that? Everyone is equal. We have the right to call out unfairness when we see it," Beatrice stated simply. "I am divorcing Richard. Sylvia and I do not owe each other anything anymore. There is no need to be polite."

Joanne let out a deep sigh, leaning back against the leather seat. "Bea, seriously, why is it so hard for us women? Richard is the one who screwed up and ruined the marriage, but somehow, his family makes it feel like the blame falls on you. They act like you are committing a crime just because you want a divorce."

"Once the divorce goes through, things will not be this hard anymore." Beatrice knew the road ahead would be tough. Even if she had to take on manual labor or work multiple jobs to survive, it would be a paradise compared to the emotional suffocation of living with the Vance family.

Pulling out her phone, Beatrice opened her messages. She needed to lock down the divorce timeline before Richard could spin another web of lies. She typed out a text, explicitly demanding he meet her for the divorce proceedings tomorrow. To ensure his compliance, she added a sharp ultimatum: if he attempted to hide or stall again, she would show up at his prestigious university and cause a massive, public scandal in front of his colleagues and students.

She hit send.

Almost instantly, her phone buzzed in her palm.

Beatrice stared at the screen, a bitter twist forming on her lips. The immediate reply was a stark contrast to his past behavior. She remembered the last time she had pleaded for his help. She had been bedridden with a terrible fever, shivering and barely able to breathe. She texted him, begging him to come home. It took him five agonizing hours to send a reply.

By the time he answered, Joanne had already forced Beatrice into a car and rushed her to the hospital. The doctors warned that she was dangerously close to developing severe pneumonia.

When Beatrice later confronted Richard about his absence, he offered the same detached excuses. "I am busy." "I did not see the message." "Stop making a fuss over nothing."

Over the decades, Beatrice had learned to stop expecting anything from her husband.

Now, under the threat of a ruined reputation, he had found his phone real quick. She opened the message.

*[I'm downstairs. Let's talk at home,]* Richard wrote. He was attempting to drag her back onto his turf, desperate to regain control of the narrative.

Beatrice’s fingers flew across the keyboard. She refused to yield an inch of ground to his manipulation tactics.

*[See you at the Courthouse in an hour.]*

She locked her screen and shoved the phone back into her purse. An hour was more than enough time to get across town.

Realizing his usual manipulation tactics were failing, Richard did not find another excuse to avoid her.

When the taxi pulled up to the imposing concrete steps of the Courthouse, Beatrice spotted the familiar vehicle right away. Richard's sleek black Range Rover was already parked outside, gleaming under the midday sun.

Beatrice paid the driver, and she and Joanne stepped out onto the pavement. She stared at the luxury SUV. She remembered the day Richard bought that car. He had spun a beautiful tale about taking road trips around the world together. Yet, in all the years he owned it, she had only ridden in the passenger seat a handful of times. Instead, while he cruised in leather-scented luxury, Beatrice spent her days squeezing onto crowded public buses or flagging down unlicensed taxis to get to the Vitality Center.

As Beatrice watched closely, the driver's side door swung open. Richard stepped out into the daylight.

Even in his fifties, he looked impeccably sharp. He wore a tailored jacket that hugged his shoulders perfectly, paired with crisp dress pants. His stylish glasses gave him an air of sophisticated elegance. He carried himself like a man of high stature—confident, wealthy, and youthful.

It was a bitter, stark visual contrast. They were the same age, but decades of physical exhaustion, endless housework, and relentless stress had accelerated her aging. She had drained her own youth to support his rise to the top. A humorless smile tugged at the corner of her mouth at the sheer unfairness of it all.

Richard did not walk toward her. Instead, he rounded the front of the imposing vehicle and approached the passenger side.

He reached out and pulled the door open.

A young woman stepped out onto the pavement. She was dressed impeccably in a high-end designer outfit that clung to her slim figure. Her hair was styled perfectly, and she carried a designer handbag that cost more than Beatrice made in a year.

It was Vanessa.

Beatrice froze in her tracks. The air vanished from her lungs. Her eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated disbelief as she stared at the young woman adjusting her expensive jacket. Disgust churned in her stomach, rising like bile.

*What is Richard going to do? He even brought his mistress along?*