Aliyawanders

From the first day,

grief hadn’t even settled into my bones

before I was told —

no, pressed —

to follow him to the ATM,

to withdraw her money.

My mom’s money.

My deceased mom’s money.

He made sure I was alone.

He didn’t want anyone else to know.

But fate spared me that day.

We couldn’t find the ATM card.

He forgot…

he’d passed my mom’s purse to Amir,

my husband.

Amir had slipped it into the glove compartment.

Then Amir fell sick,

sleeping through most of the days after Mom’s funeral.

Don’t bother Amir, he said.

So Amir never knew,

not until the very last day.

For days,

I lived with him breathing down my neck.

I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere.

Even when Amir wanted to step out,

he was interrogated —

where,

who,

when will you be back?

Every answer had to be exact.

On the fourth day,

I broke.

I told Amir.

He said I should’ve told him earlier.

He took out my mom’s purse

and handed it to him.

And just like that,

I was “free.”

Four days later,

against his tears,

I went home.

I thought my nightmare had ended.

I told him,

“You have the ATM card,

only you know the PIN.

If you want Mom’s money so badly,

go yourself.

Don’t involve me.”

But the calls came.

Again and again.

Come with me to the ATM,

I need your help,

I can’t do this alone.

Eighty thousand ringgit.

All of it.

I told him,

“That’s illegal.

I could lose my career.”

He said it was fine.

I still needed to go.

My heart cracked.

I thought that was the worst of it.

I prayed it was.

But then he called again.

Begging me

not to register my mom’s death.

It had been almost a week.

Why?

Because he didn’t want her assets frozen.

“How much longer?” I asked.

“At least another month,” he said.

No.

On the seventh day,

I will register it.

And the next day,

I stood at the JPN counter,

paperwork in hand,

tears blurring my vision.

I cried quietly,

because in that moment,

I had never felt more alone.