I was married to Mike for seven years—a life built on shared routines, quiet Sundays, and the kind of trust you don’t think twice about. We had our inside jokes and unspoken understanding, the comfort that comes with time. When my grandmother passed away last spring and left me a modest $15,000 inheritance, I only told Mike. I believed we were a team, and he seemed genuinely supportive, nodding gently as if to say, “We’re in this together.”
Three months later, everything changed. Mike came home looking like he’d seen a ghost. “I crashed my boss’s car,” he said, panic in his voice. “He says I owe him $8,000 or I’m fired.” Without hesitation, I offered to help. He was my husband—my partner—and I thought that’s what love meant: showing up when it counted. That night, I wired the money, convinced I was doing the right thing for both of us, believing I was protecting our life together. I didn’t yet know that this moment would mark the beginning of a painful unraveling.
