After months of saving like my life depended on it, I was finally ready to travel overseas and visit my late father’s grave to say a proper goodbye. What I never expected was that my own husband would try to sabotage my plans. He stole the money I had worked so hard to put aside, but in the end, he paid dearly for it.
I’ve been married to Ethan for four years. On the surface, we seemed like a normal couple. We didn’t have children, and we had our ups and downs, but I believed we loved each other. At least, I thought so—until the night everything changed.
My dream had always been simple: to stand at my father’s gravesite in Europe and pay my final respects. He passed away a few months ago, and because of circumstances, I wasn’t there when he died. That loss weighed heavily on me, so I started saving every spare dollar I could manage.
As a nurse, I don’t earn a fortune, but little by little, I tucked away cash in a box hidden in my closet. Over time, it grew to more than $5,000—just enough to cover the trip. Ethan knew how much this meant to me. He always said he supported me. Or so I believed.
We were careful with money, since finances were tight. I even told Ethan that in three weeks, I’d be leaving for the trip. I was counting down the days.
Then came the shock.
One afternoon, I got off work earlier than expected and drove home. Ethan was supposed to be working a night shift, but when I pulled up, I noticed our bedroom light was on. That was strange.
Quietly, I crept to the window and peeked inside. My heart dropped. Ethan was kneeling in front of my closet, pulling cash out of my stash—the very money I had been saving for my trip.
I called him immediately, pretending nothing was wrong. He picked up after several rings. “Hi, babe, where are you?” I asked.
“I told you, I’m at work. Night shift,” he said sharply.
I bit back my anger and lied. “Oh, right. I forgot. Could you maybe start dinner for me? I’ll be later than usual.”
“I can’t, I have to get back to work. Love you, bye,” he said quickly before hanging up.
From my hiding spot, I watched him throw on his jacket and leave the house with my money stuffed into a bag. I moved my car out of sight and followed him.
He caught the bus, and I trailed him from a distance. After getting off near a shopping center, he wandered for a bit and then headed straight into a fishing supply store. My stomach turned. I parked, walked quietly inside, and hid behind a display. What I saw made my blood boil.
Ethan was grinning ear to ear, holding an inflatable boat bigger than anything I’d ever seen, with a cart piled high with expensive fishing gear—reels, tackle, boxes, you name it. He looked like a kid on Christmas morning.
And how was he paying for it? With MY savings. The money meant for my father’s grave.
Sure enough, I watched him pull out the bag of cash and hand it to the clerk. That was it. I snapped.
“Ethan! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shouted, storming up to him. The entire store turned to look.
His face went pale. “Lizzy? What… what are you doing here?”
“I should be asking YOU that! Did you take my money? The money I’ve been saving for my trip?”
He stammered, trying to look innocent. “What? No! I’ve been saving for this myself. You’re overworked, you’re imagining things.”
I stared at him, seething. “Don’t you dare lie to me. That money was for something important. Something sacred. And you blew it on a boat?”
He tried to calm me, placing a hand on my arm. “Lizzy, relax. We’ll talk at home. You’re stressed.”
I yanked my arm away and walked out, tears streaming down my face. For the first time in years, I felt completely betrayed.
Later that night, he admitted it. He wanted to use the money to go on some so-called “once-in-a-lifetime” fishing trip with his buddies and professionals. He even had the nerve to suggest I delay my trip to Europe.
That was the final straw.
The next morning, I acted. While Ethan was at work, I packed up every last item of fishing gear he had just bought, loaded it into the car, and returned it all to the store. I even sold his older gear to the shop, pocketing an extra $2,000.
Then I packed my suitcase—not for him, but for me. With the refunded money in hand, I booked my flight and left without leaving a note.
The journey to Europe felt surreal. For once, I was doing something entirely for myself. When I arrived at my father’s gravesite, I placed daisies—his favorite—by his headstone and finally said the goodbye I had been longing to give. Tears poured down my face, but they were tears of peace, not sorrow.
Later, I saw messages from Ethan: “Elizabeth, where are you? Please talk to me.” I ignored them. For too long, I had sacrificed for him, only to be treated like my dreams didn’t matter.
Now, standing at my father’s grave, I realized something: I didn’t need Ethan’s permission, his lies, or his selfishness weighing me down. For the first time in years, I felt free.