Hi, I’m Iris. From the outside, my life might look perfect, but it’s far from that. I’m a stay-at-home mom managing an energetic eight-year-old named Ollie and a spirited six-year-old princess called Sophie.
My husband, Paul, has a steady job and provides for us—he’s a great dad who showers the kids with gifts and makes sure we want for nothing. But after our second child was born, things changed. Paul started focusing more on work and less on family. The spontaneous movie nights and surprise dinners disappeared, replaced by “work stress” and “me time” excuses whenever I suggested spending time together. At first, I let it slide, but lately, it’s been weighing on me.
Last week, things got worse. Paul came home excited, announcing he’d take a half-day off to attend his friend Alex’s wedding — a three-day trip. I was hopeful that maybe we could have a little break from my overwhelming daily routine. But that hope vanished when I found out only Paul was invited.
“Why not me?” I asked, feeling disappointed.
He said Alex wanted a small, partner-free gathering because he was “a bit strange.” That seemed odd to me.
“Are there any single women going?” I nervously asked, biting my nails — a bad habit I can’t quit.
Paul’s mood quickly shifted from relaxed to annoyed. “Iris, come on,” he said. Trying to lighten the mood, I joked, “Just kidding! Stay away from those single ladies, okay?”
Big mistake. He took it as an accusation, and soon we were fighting. Paul accused me of being suspicious and controlling, lecturing me on “relationship secrets,” making me feel paranoid and crazy.
But was I wrong? I snapped back, reminding him how he always put his “me time” ahead of helping with the kids.
“I want to enjoy life too, Paul!” I cried, tears filling my eyes. “What’s the point of making money if you’re never here?”
That’s when it got ugly. Paul stared at me like I’d stabbed him, then pulled out a $20 bill.
“Here,” he said sarcastically, “try running the house on this while I’m gone for three days.”
He shoved the money into my hand and left before I could say a word. I was stunned — could he really think $20 would feed three hungry people for three days?
Tears in my eyes, I ran to the fridge, hoping we had food. But it was nearly empty—just some juice boxes, a pickle, and a handful of eggs. This wasn’t going to work. I was stuck with $20 and no groceries.
Anger grew inside me. Paul knew our finances; I had no secret savings. He was trying to make a point, and it backfired. Now, I was determined to teach him a lesson and make him understand my daily struggle. But how?
My eyes landed on his prized antique coin collection — valuable keepsakes from his great-grandfather’s era. Maybe these could help me get food and show him how serious this was.
With a pounding heart and guilty conscience, I took the coins to a nearby secondhand shop. The owner examined them and offered $700. Relief washed over me.
With that money, I filled my cart with fresh food and treats for the kids, trying not to feel guilty about selling Paul’s treasures. But the empty fridge and Paul’s taunt kept me going.
The three days passed slowly, the house eerily quiet without Paul’s complaints and the kids’ questions. Then I heard a car pull up.
Paul was home — carrying bags full of groceries, smiling like a kid. He apologized repeatedly, promising never to leave us like that again. But when he saw the empty spot in the glass cabinet where his coins once were, his smile vanished.
He sank to his knees, crying, “My coins?!”
I apologized over and over, feeling the full weight of what I’d done.
The next day, I rushed to the pawn shop and gave up my late grandmother’s wedding ring to buy the coins back. The shop owner gave me a discount, and soon I was holding those precious coins again, hoping to mend the broken trust.
Back home, I carefully placed the coins back in their display. When Paul came in, tears filled his eyes.
“We need to talk,” he said softly.
That night, we opened up about our anger, unspoken needs, and the distance growing between us. It was painful but honest. We realized rebuilding trust takes time, and happiness in a marriage is a journey for both people—not just one.
Slowly, brick by brick, we started to heal. Our coin story taught us that love isn’t about keeping score or holding grudges. It’s about talking, understanding, and walking the path together.