A Dutch Pay Bill After My Abortion

The anesthesia hadn't fully worn off yet. I lay on the hospital bed, with a heavy ache in my lower abdomen. My phone vibrated on the bedside table. I struggled to roll over and reached out to grab it. The screen lit up with a message from Richard Johnson. He is my husband of three years, who just accompanied me through a miscarriage surgery. I opened the chat window and found the ambulance fee payment receipt. It read: "Ambulance fee 1200, Dutch Pay rules, you transfer me 600." Before I could react, another message popped up. It was a spreadsheet titled "Three-Year Post-Marriage Expense Balance Details." I opened it, and it was filled with entries—8.5 dollars extra spent on groceries, 32.2 dollars on utilities, all recorded. The last line read: "Total balance 1867.3 dollars, please settle before the Dutch Pay payment contract expires." The Dutch Pay payment contract was something Richard insisted on signing when we got married. At the time, I felt it was distant, but he said it was about fairness, so I signed it. I never expected that right after the surgery, he would come asking for payment. My lower abdomen hurt even more, and I typed back, "Okay, I understand." After sending the message, I called Draco. Draco has always been by my father's side and looked after me. The call connected, and my voice was hoarse: "Draco, I agree." There was silence for a few seconds on the other end: "Ms. Jordan, do you need to reconsider?" "No need," I closed my eyes, "I've already made up my mind." After hanging up, the hospital room door was pushed open. Richard walked in carrying a plastic bag with the boxed meal he had brought. He put the bag on the bedside table, didn't look at me, and immediately sat down to eat. I was terribly thirsty, my lips cracked: "Richard, I want some water." He chewed his food without looking up: "There's bottled water on the table, three dollars each, Dutch Pay rules. Transfer me 1.5 dollars and I'll open it for you." I was stunned. I had just lost the baby and could barely move lying in bed, yet he still insisted on splitting the cost even for a bottle of water. "Richard," my voice trembled, "Pour me a glass first; I'll transfer the money afterward." "No," he put down his chopsticks, his gaze cold. "We agreed on the Dutch Pay system, not a penny less. If you don't transfer now, how do I know you won't cheat me later?" I looked at his face and suddenly felt like he was a stranger. "Where's mine?" I asked. "You didn't get any dinner for me?" "You didn't pay," he said matter-of-factly. "I only paid for myself. If you want some, transfer me 25 bucks, and I'll go buy it again." Tears streamed down my face. "Richard, we just lost our baby, and you're not even a little sad?" He furrowed his brow, his tone impatient: "What's the point of being upset? This is your own fault. If you'd been more careful, this would never have happened." I stared at him, my heart sinking bit by bit. So in his eyes, losing the baby was entirely my fault. I closed my eyes and said nothing. I knew that from this moment on, everything between Richard and me was completely over.