I admitted that Mason barely helped with nighttime feedings. That I had canceled my own doctor’s appointment because he “couldn’t leave work.”
That he complained whenever dinner was late, referred to caring for his own daughters as “babysitting,” and regularly told people how lucky I was to be “home all day.”
Then his mother called. She had no idea he had left either. And while she was asking whether I had enough formula to get through the weekend, I opened our joint bank account.
That was when I saw the transfer. $2,400 missing from our e. m. e. r. g.
e. n. c. y savings. The same fund Mason had insisted we couldn’t touch when I asked whether we could afford a few hours of childcare each week so I could sleep, shower without rushing, or make it to medical appointments.
But somehow, there had been enough money for a cabin. A boat rental. Fuel.
Restaurants. And four days of “peace and quiet.” I stared at the screen while my sister quietly said, “Claire… save everything.”
So I did. The bank records. The messages. His vacation post. Every excuse.
Every promise. And every piece of evidence showing exactly how much of our marriage I had been covering up for everyone else.
By Saturday night, I wasn’t asking myself how to make my husband finally understand anymore.
