Chapter 2: Family Pride and Betrayal

Aunt Linda said, annoyed, "At the reception, your parents said your husband’s family gave a dowry of three eighty-eight. It’s not like you can’t afford it. Your family is so well-off—don’t pretend to be poor."

She waved her hand like it was settled, her voice rising to rally the crowd.

That dowry was fake. My husband and I saved it together. He’s an orphan, raised by his grandpa. We only claimed that dowry so people wouldn’t gossip.

The dowry story had spread, as stories do. I bit my lip, wishing for the thousandth time we’d eloped.

I’d told my family: bring the dowry back in full, for our kid’s education.

It was our only safety net—college, a down payment, a fresh start.

I’d told my dad not to mention it, but I didn’t expect him to get drunk and brag.

Of course, he’d been beaming all day. I heard him at the punch bowl, voice booming.

And now my husband had lost exactly three eighty—almost matching the dowry. They even left me eight grand. Too neat.

My hands shook with fury and betrayal.

"Your parents are here," Aunt Linda pointed at the door.

I turned. There they were—my dad, mom, and younger brother, stepping into the haze.

They walked in, saw my husband slumped over the table, and still greeted us cheerfully: "Still playing? Play a bit longer, there’s not much to do in our little town."

They had no clue yet. Mom’s hair perfect, Dad holding his plate of cake. My brother, hoodie up, half-asleep.

I sneered, "Play what? Your son-in-law lost three hundred eighty thousand. Uncle Dave and Aunt Linda want the money."

My voice carried. Upstairs, the music paused. Even the neighbors peeked in.

"What?"

Dad’s plate clattered onto the folding table.

I shouted, "Three hundred eighty thousand!"

The number echoed. A few onlookers winced.

"Three hundred eighty thousand? Who?"

Mom clutched her purse. Dad stared, stunned. My brother looked between us, confused.

"Your son-in-law, out of his mind, lost three hundred eighty thousand."

I pointed at my husband, still slumped and blinking.

Dad asked, "Really?"

He spoke quietly, like saying it made it real.

Uncle Dave replied, "Brother, there are no father and son at the card table. Nephew-in-law really lost three eighty. So many saw it."

Uncle Dave’s tone was smooth, practiced. He gestured to the crowd, who nodded in solemn agreement.

My mom screamed and collapsed—my brother caught her just in time.

He wrapped an arm around her, helping her into a chair. Her face crumpled, mascara streaking.

"Three hundred eighty thousand? That’s enough to build a two-story house! What do we do now?"

Her voice was ragged, panicked. She looked at me like I could conjure money from nowhere.

Mom sobbed, my brother comforted her, looking at me helplessly.

He rubbed her back, whispering, but his eyes darted between the table and me, searching for an answer I didn’t have.

The commotion drew a crowd—everyone in town, it seemed, peering down the stairs. My high school gym teacher. The cashier from Piggly Wiggly. Mrs. Harper with her famous lemon bars. All packed in, hungry for drama.

Uncle Dave piped up, "Three eighty’s a lot, but nephew-in-law agreed. He was winning at first, lost at the end. Cards are like that—winning and losing comes in turns. Maybe play a few more rounds and he’ll win it back."

He spread his hands, pretending to be fair. Several nodded, muttering, "That’s the way."

Everyone nodded. "That’s right, exactly."

I felt the tide turning, logic drowning under tradition.

Dad asked, "Did you gamble?"

His voice was low, heavy with history. The room hushed.

I shook my head. "It was already like this when I got here."

I tried to sound calm, but my voice trembled. My hands felt numb.

Dad patted my husband. "Our family cares about reputation. A son-in-law is family—if he lost, then he lost. However much it is, we’ll accept it."

He spoke with the weight of a judge. The crowd murmured their approval, as if it was already over.

I was stunned. I could argue with Uncle Dave and Aunt Linda—call the cops if needed. But with my dad saying this, it was as if our family had accepted the debt. Nothing I said mattered anymore.

I felt the ground shift, my options shrinking, family pride sealing my fate.

Dad pulled me aside, grave. "Your mom and I have never been shamed here. I can’t let my son-in-law lose face. We’ll sell the house, empty savings, gather wedding money. If it’s not enough, your mom and I will work. Your brother can scrimp. But we can’t let people look down on us."

His words were soft, but the pain in his eyes was sharp. Decades of standing tall in this town, now bent by family pride.

My brother put an arm around Mom and said, "Sis, I can earn money. We’re not afraid."

He straightened up, trying to sound grown, but I saw the fear flicker in his eyes.

My family’s legacy was pride over money—barbed wire around our hearts.

My husband woke up, staggered over, and hugged me, mumbling, "Babe, I can win it back."

His arms heavy, words slurred but hopeful. The crowd snickered; someone called out, "Let the boy try!"

My heroic resolve turned to rage. My fists clenched—I was one step away from punching him.

My nails bit my palms. I bit my tongue to keep from screaming.

Simple, easygoing, too trusting—these were the things I loved about him, and his fatal flaws.

I remembered him changing a tire for a stranger in the rain, giving away the last slice of pie, always believing in people. That same kindness left us exposed.

Uncle Dave said, "Since your dad said so, we’re all family. Just leave an IOU, and it’s settled."

He slid a notepad across the table, casual as a banker. Aunt Linda watched, lips pursed.

Aunt Linda pulled a notepad and pen from her bag. Dad gripped the pen, hand shaking so badly the ink pooled on the page.

The pen hovered, ink blotting where his hand trembled. I watched the whole scene as if underwater.

"Wait." I took the paper and pen, pressing them to the table. "If the game’s not over, why are we writing IOUs? You scared I’ll win it back?"

I spoke clear and loud. The pen clattered onto the table. For a moment, no one moved.

Everyone was stunned. Dad trembled as he asked, "What are you going to do?"

He looked at me like he didn’t recognize me. My brother’s eyes widened. The crowd leaned in, breathless.

"My husband is drunk—he can’t see straight. I’ll play for him."

I straightened up, letting the words ring. Someone gasped. The tension turned electric.

"She’s never played a hand in her life," someone in the crowd muttered.

My uncle sounded incredulous. Tyler snorted, shaking his head.

I laughed. "My husband never touched cards either. Didn’t you all teach him?"

My laugh was brittle, bouncing off the cinderblock. I stared them down, daring anyone to stop me.

"No, no," Aunt Linda tried. "What if you lose even more?"

She reached for my arm. I pulled away. Her eyes flicked from the notepad to my mother, searching for help.

"Aunt Linda, you afraid I can’t afford to lose?" I pulled out my house keys. "My new house, just renovated, never lived in—worth $800,000. Is that enough to play a few rounds with you?"

I dangled the keys, the ring catching the neon light. The crowd buzzed.

"Are you serious?" Big John gaped. Tyler’s jaw clenched.

"Aunt Linda, you watched me grow up. Have I ever not meant what I said?"

I gave her my hardest stare, daring her to call my bluff.

My mom, now recovered, rushed over to drag me away. My brother followed, trying to talk me down. Dad wept, saying, "Nine out of ten gamblers lose. Once you sit at the table, you become a ghost, not a person."

Their pleas tore at me, but I couldn’t back down. Not in front of all these people. Not with my future on the line.

They were right.

My hands shook as I pried Mom’s fingers off my sleeve. Her tears left a wet mark on my dress.

After years away, I’d seen gambling destroy families—mothers working double, kids dropping out, all because someone couldn’t walk away.

I never thought it’d happen to me, in my own home, by my own relatives, on my wedding day.

The irony was sharp as a slap. The crowd pressed closer, hungry for the next move.

But I couldn’t leave.

I stared at the rec room window, the moon peeking through grime. This was my line in the sand.

If I left, that three hundred eighty grand debt would haunt my family forever. Not just my parents and brother—even my marriage would be tainted.

It would follow us everywhere—a story whispered at every barbecue, every reunion. The mark of failure.

Once my husband sobered up, he’d realize what my relatives were really like, and his view of me would be forever changed.

Trust, once broken, is almost impossible to rebuild. I owed it to myself to fight.

I can’t let the happiness I fought for be destroyed by a few people.

I built my life on grit and determination. I wasn’t about to lose it all in one night.

If they don’t treat me as family, I don’t have to treat them as people.

The thought was cold, but it gave me strength. I let go of Mom’s hand and turned back to the table.