My husband, Steve, never said we were broke, but he made me feel like I wasn’t worth a dime. That night, I was grading papers, the kitchen heavy with the scent of markers, when a bill popped up—overdue, again. I paid it, like I paid for the water, the new fridge, and Steve’s big-screen TV. From the living room, he was glued to a car ad, gushing about its speed. “Can we even keep the power on?” I asked. He shrugged, saying I always handle it. Then, grabbing my pajamas, a receipt fell from his coat: $10,234 for a two-week beach resort stay for two. “What’s this?” I demanded, holding it up. “A gift for Mom and her friend,” he said, barely looking up. “She’s 70, deserves it.” I reminded him he skipped my birthday gift, saying it was a waste, but he brushed it off. “You’re tough, El. Mom’s not.” I stood there, reeling, wondering who this “friend” was.
The next day, at school, I was fighting for camp scholarships for my students, kids who shared shoes or ate crackers for lunch. Checking Facebook for a camp’s response, I saw a post from Lora—Steve’s ex. She was on a beach with my mother-in-law, both radiant, toasting under an umbrella. Her caption: “Dream trip with my almost mom-in-law, thank you, Steve!” My heart sank. He’d funded a luxury getaway for his ex, not just his mom. At home, with Steve in the shower, his phone locked away, I opened his laptop. Messages from his mom read: “Lora’s glowing, we’re living like queens. Why stay with that woman holding you back? We miss you.” Steve’s reply: “Have fun, my favorite girls. I’ll be there soon.” The words burned. I’d been paying our way while he treated me like an afterthought, showering his ex with extravagance.
I didn’t confront him. I acted. A week later, I drove my entire class—22 kids—to a summer camp I’d paid for with $10,000 from our account. Every kid got a spot, new gear, and “Team Room 12” shirts. I used the rest for a divorce lawyer. Before leaving, I changed the locks, set up security, and left Steve’s belongings on the porch—clothes, golf clubs, even his fancy toothbrush. A note read: “Steve, enjoy your favorite girls. See you in court.” As the kids screamed with joy, spotting the camp’s zip line, I felt light. The wind whipped through the van, their laughter filling the air. I’d chosen them, and myself, over a man who’d chosen his ex. For once, I was the one moving forward.
