After My Husband Passed Away, I Sent His Mom $200 Every Month

My husband died five years ago. Every single month I sent $200 to my in-laws to pay off a debt.

One day my neighbor from the floor below told me, “Stop sending them money and look at the security camera.”

The next day I reviewed the footage. The scene that unfolded before me left me frozen.

The smell of peeling plaster mixed with the funk of drains that hadn’t been cleaned in years hit me the moment I turned off the engine of my old car at the foot of the building. This old brick tenement had survived in the heart of Chicago for more than 70 years, just as worn out and decrepit as the people slowly wasting away inside it.

I locked my burgundy sedan near the corner right where a patch of red paint marked the spot it had occupied for the last 5 years. Today was the fifth of the month, the day when I, Kesha, a 32-year-old widow, had to fulfill the obligation of paying my late husband’s debt.

Five floors, no elevator. I adjusted my purse; my hand unconsciously brushed against the bulging envelope in the inside pocket.

$200: an insignificant amount for the rich but a sixth of my meager salary. Money for Malik’s milk, for his tutoring, for his basketball league fees.

5 years ago, so that Marcus could go work in the oil fields of North Dakota, his parents withdrew all their retirement savings, a total of $12,000, and gave it to him. The day Marcus died, his mother pointed a finger at me, accusing me that because of me her son had to leave home only to end up losing his life leaving them, two elderly people, empty-handed.

She forced me to assume the responsibility of paying back that amount divided into $200 a month for 5 years. I gritted my teeth and accepted, considering it the last gesture of love toward my husband and a way to have peace to raise my son.

The stairwell was a dark, deep well barely lit by weak rays of sun filtering through the dirty glass of the air shaft. The echo of my footsteps rang out on the worn tiles—clack, clack, clack—every step was a dead weight.

On the first floor the superintendent always had the radio blasting. On the second the smell of burnt red beans escaped from a communal kitchen.

On the third a young couple was arguing loudly about the rising electric bill. When I reached the fourth, the silence became almost total.

The fifth, where my in-laws lived, was a world apart, possessing a creepy stillness. I stopped on the landing of the fifth floor, wiping the sweat from my temples.

My chest felt tight and my heart was pounding hard, not just from the effort but from the vague sense of unease that always invaded me in front of that iron door painted a peeling blue. Apartment 504, Marcus’ parents’ house.

I knocked three times with sharp clear wraps. Knock, knock, knock.

Silence. I knew they were home; they never went anywhere.

Elijah, my father-in-law, suffered from arthritis, and Viola, my mother-in-law, always complained of headaches and dizziness. Both lived like shadows in that 600 square foot apartment with the blinds drawn and the door bolted tight day and night.

I knocked again, louder this time. “Pop, Mom, it’s Kesha.”

Almost a minute passed until I heard the shuffling of slippers inside. The sound of the deadbolt sliding back was dry like the cracking of an old man’s bones.

The door opened just a crack, barely enough for a wrinkled and grumpy face to peek out. It was Viola.

She was a little over 60 but looked much older, her eyes sunken and surrounded by dark circles always looked around with suspicion as if she feared someone would steal her soul. She didn’t open the door all the way; she kept the security chain on, creating a cold barrier between her world and mine.

“Is that you?”

Her voice was lacking emotion.

“Yes, hi Mom. I’m here to bring this month’s money.”

I tried to keep a smile though I felt my face muscles stiffen.

“Ah, give it here,”

she said curtly.

I opened my purse hurriedly and took out the envelope I already had prepared. I offered it with two hands through the narrow opening.

“Here is this month’s $200 so you can buy your medicine.”

Viola reached out a bony hand crossed with blue veins and snatched the envelope with the speed of a bird of prey. Without counting it or looking at it, she stuffed it directly into the pocket of her house coat.

The gesture was so automatic and decided that I felt like a stranger in debt, not her daughter-in-law.

“Is Malik okay?”

she asked without looking me in the eye, shifting her gaze toward the stairs behind me as if watching to see if someone was coming up.

“Yes, he’s doing great. He doesn’t stop asking about his grandparents. This weekend if you want I can bring him over to spend the day with you. I’ve almost finished paying the debt; I’d like you to be more comfortable with him.”

Upon hearing that, Viola’s face soured and she waved her hand nervously.

“No, no. Your father is doing bad with his leg and I have a headache. A child in the house is too much ruckus. We aren’t up for noise. Finishing the payments is your business; we’ll call you when we’re feeling better so you can bring him.”