Post-Divorce Unwanted Kid: Receipts for Every Spend Chapter 01

Post-Divorce Unwanted Kid: Receipts for Every Spend Chapter 01 Feeding the Baggage

After my parents got divorced, I had to submit receipts just to eat. Ten bucks per meal, and that was it.

They set up a group chat called “Feeding the Baggage” and split up the duties. One person handled vetting the requests, the other handled sending the money.

Every day, I felt like some kind of beggar, writing 300-word essays just to justify buying a sausage.

One time, I bought water and forgot to get a receipt, and the group chat absolutely lost it.

“David Preston, your daughter just learned how to commit fraud. This meal’s coming out of YOUR wallet!”

“Cut the crap, Hazel! When you bought your stepdaughter the newest iPhone, where was HER receipt?”

After they finished ripping each other apart, they’d each send me these private voice messages about how they just wanted to teach me about money management.

Then one day, I collapsed on the sidewalk with appendicitis, and I begged them in the chat to send money for emergency surgery. They argued for half the night about who should pay more.

Dad finally sent a video, with fireworks over Sapphire Bay for my stepbrother’s birthday. “Busy right now. My son’s making a wish.”

Mom posted right after with a photo of my stepsister’s cosmetic procedure bill. “Can’t talk. Making my daughter beautiful.”

I stared at my phone, and then I just pulled the IV out of my arm.

Another notification popped up.

“Dinner reimbursement request, DENIED. No receipt.”

My stomach twisted. The bread cost two dollars from some street vendor, an old lady who didn’t even have a receipt printer.

I typed back, “Mom, it was a street stall. There literally wasn’t a receipt.”

Three seconds later, Mom sent a voice message.

“Gwen, rules are rules. How do I know you didn’t spend one dollar and try to scam me for one more? You’ve been lying since you were little, just like your father.”

Dad fired back immediately.

“Leave me out of this, Hazel. You’re reviewing receipts today, so if you want to weasel out of paying, just say it. Oh, and Gwen, make sure you submit tomorrow’s breakfast request early. Anything under 300 words gets rejected.”

I stared at the cold bread in my hand, and tears started rolling down my face.

For Red

Last night, I’d stayed up late writing a 300-word application just to add a two-dollar sausage to my me! But I made a spelling error, lost a point, and the sausage got denied.

My parents had been divorced for three years, and I was the ball they kept kicking back and forth. They’d both started new families and had new favorite kids now. To make sure I wasn’t “double-dipping, they created this group chat where every single dollar got scrutinized like I was some kind of criminal.

I bit into the stale bread and chewed mechanically.

The chat started blowing up again,

Mom posted a photo of the newest iPhone with a caption, “Got this for my Lily. She earned it by placing tenth in her class.”

Dad wasn’t about to be outdone, so he posted a video of himself at Sapphire Bay with his arm around my stepbrother, fireworks exploding overhead. He was grinning ear to ear. “Happy birthday, my boy! Sapphire Bay’s gonna be our backyard from now on!”

I watched that video, and suddenly, I remembered when I got first place in my class. I’d asked for a new backpack.

David said, “A backpack just needs to hold books. Why are you being so materialistic?”

Hazel agreed. “Your dad’s right. Girls need to learn to live modestly.”

But now they were showering other people’s kids with everything money could buy.

The pain in my abdomen suddenly spiked, like someone was twisting a knife inside me.

Cold sweat poured down my face, and I curled up on the bench by the sidewalk.

My vision started going blurry, and my hands shook as I typed a message in the

group

chat.

“Dad, Mom, my stomach’s killing me. I think it might be appendicitis. Can you send some money so I can get to the hospital…”

Nobody answered.

They were still in the chat competing over who spent more on their new families.

I gritted my teeth and sent another message. “I really can’t move. Please help…”

Five minutes later, Mom replied.

“Gwen, the pity party’s getting old. Last time you said you needed study guides, and I caught you buying manga. Now you’re faking sick?””

Then Dad chimed in. “Ignore her. She just wants money to go out and have fun. She’s old enough to know better, but all she thinks about is how to scam us.”

The pain swallowed every rational thought, and my phone slipped out of my hand.

Right before I blacked out, I saw one last message pop up in the chat.

Dad had shared a link. “How to Spot Your Teenager’s Lies”