“Transfer it every Friday.”
So, I swallowed my pride.
“Fine,” I said. “A thousand a week.”
He nodded, like we’d just agreed on a contract.
“Transfer it every Friday,” he said. “That way it’s simple.”
Simple.
Right.
“Now, what do you need?”
So, that first Friday, I moved a thousand from my personal savings into our joint account. He checked his phone, smiled, and gave me a little pat on the arm.
“Thanks,” he said. “Now, what do you need?”
What I got for my thousand dollars:
Bare minimum.
I felt guilty for asking for water.
He’d rush through helping me shower, sighing the whole time. “Can you hurry up? I’ve got stuff to do.”
He’d cook, drop the plate on the tray in front of me, and walk away without even asking if I needed help to cut anything.
He’d leave me alone for hours. If I pressed the little call button app we’d set up on my phone, he’d ignore it and later say, “I was busy,” or, “You have to stop acting like I’m your servant.”
I felt guilty for asking for water.
“Who are you talking to?”
On top of that, he was permanently attached to his phone.
Always texting.
Always turning the screen away when I came into the room.
“Who are you talking to?” I asked once.
“Guys from work,” he said. “I’m allowed to have a life.”
One night around midnight, I woke up thirsty.
He started going out “for errands” more. I’d hear the door slam while I sat in the living room, stuck in my chair, staring at my useless legs.
One night around midnight, I woke up thirsty.
He wasn’t in bed.
I could hear his voice faintly from the living room.
I hit the call button.
I grabbed the phone and opened their messages.
Nothing.
I dialed his phone. It rang in the other room.
He let it ring.
The next morning, when he was in the shower, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I didn’t go searching. It was right there.
I shouldn’t have, but I’m glad I did.
The preview on the screen said:
Jenna: “The other night was amazing. Can’t wait to see you again. 😘”
Jenna is my friend.
I grabbed the phone and opened their messages.
I shouldn’t have, but I’m glad I did.
“At least she’s paying for our dates.”
There it all was.
Him: “Babysitting a cripple is exhausting. You better make it worth it later.”
Her: “Poor you 😏 At least she’s paying for our dates.”
Him: “True. She finally paid for something fun 😂”
Screenshots of my transfers. Jokes about “hazard pay.” Complaints about how “she just sits there all day” and “expects me to do everything.”
My stomach turned.
Photos.
Them at restaurants.
Them in her car.
Her leaning over to kiss his cheek while he smirked at the camera.
My stomach turned.
“I’m doing my best.”
While I was literally paying him to take care of me, my husband was using that money to cheat on me with my friend.
I put the phone back exactly where it had been.
When he came out of the shower, he smiled and asked, “You sleep okay?”
I said, “Yeah. Thanks for taking care of me.”
His face softened. “Of course. I’m doing my best.”
That afternoon, I called my sister.
That was the moment something inside me… snapped back into place.
Not broke.
Hardened.
That afternoon, I called my sister.
She came over, kicked off her shoes, and sat on the edge of my bed.
“You sounded weird on the phone.”
“What’s going on?” she asked. “You sounded weird on the phone.”
I told her everything.
The ultimatum.
The weekly payments.
The cheating.
Jenna.
“I’m going to bury him in the backyard.”
Her face went from confusion to rage in about three seconds.
“I’m going to bury him in the backyard,” she said.
“Tempting,” I said. “But I had something more legal in mind.”
I told her I wanted out.
