For 15 years I secretly saved money for our retirement. Every month, I set aside whatever I could save. Yesterday, I opened my hiding spot — and found only a note in my husband’s handwriting, which read…

We have lived together for thirty-two years. An ordinary family. My husband worked, I worked. We raised two children. We weren’t rich, but we weren’t struggling either.

Fifteen years ago, I decided to start saving for retirement. I didn’t tell my husband. I wanted to make it a surprise. I imagined how, when he retired, I would take out the envelope and show him the money. I’d say — look, we can afford a trip, renovations, something nice.

Every month, I saved a little. I economized on groceries. I bought the cheapest things for myself. I didn’t spend on clothes at all. I wore out the old ones. My husband didn’t notice. He hardly paid attention to these things.

I hid the money in an old shoebox. The box was on the top shelf behind the winter clothes. My husband never rummaged there. Every month, I put banknotes there, wrapped them in a newspaper, and closed the lid.

After fifteen years, a decent amount had accumulated. I didn’t count it exactly, but I had a rough idea. It would have been enough for a nice vacation or to help the children.

In the last year, my husband started acting strangely. He often stayed late at work. Came home late, tired. Spoke little. I thought — age, accumulated fatigue. I didn’t make much of it.

Three months ago, he started going on business trips. He never used to travel before. Yet suddenly, every two weeks, he’d leave for three or four days. He said — work requires it, the boss sends him. I didn’t mind.

A month ago, I noticed he bought himself new clothes. Expensive ones. A suit, shirts. I was surprised. We never spent on such things. I asked where the money came from. He said — he got a bonus.

Two weeks ago, he said he wanted a divorce. Just like that, over dinner. He said — he was tired, wanted to live for himself. That he met a woman, she’s younger, he finds her interesting. That we have raised the children, fulfilled our duty. Now each can live as they wish.

I sat and listened. I didn’t expect it. Thirty-two years together, and he says — I’m tired, I want to be with someone else. I asked about the apartment. He said — the apartment is yours, I don’t want it. I’ll move out myself.

A week later, he moved out. Packed his things and left. He called later, said he’s living with that woman. That he’ll file for divorce in a month.

Yesterday, I decided to check my savings. I thought — since he’s gone, I might need that money now. I climbed up to the top shelf. Took down the box. Opened it.

There was a note inside. In his handwriting. Nothing else. All the money was gone.

The note said: “Thanks for the savings. It was enough for the down payment on the apartment for us. You would have spent it on nonsense anyway. I used it wisely.”

I sat there with the note in my hands. I didn’t even cry. I just sat there. For fifteen years, I saved on myself. Wore old clothes. Didn’t buy anything unnecessary. I saved for our retirement. I thought — we would have a shared safety net.

But he found the hiding spot. Took all the money. Bought an apartment for himself and his lover. And wrote that I would have spent it on nonsense anyway.

I called him. Asked how he could do such a thing. He answered calmly. He said the money was shared because we were married. That he had the right to take it. That he knows better how to use it.

I asked why he didn’t say something earlier. He answered — why ruin things. The divorce is already settled, the money is used. What’s the difference.

I hung up the phone. Sat on the floor in the hallway. The empty box was lying next to me. The note in my hands.

I sit alone in the apartment now. My husband filed for divorce three days ago. He lives in a new apartment, bought with my money. Money I saved for fifteen years, depriving myself of everything. The kids call and ask how things are. I say everything is fine. I don’t tell them about the money. It’s embarrassing. Embarrassing that I lived thirty-two years with a person and didn’t know him at all. 

Tell me, was it possible to foresee this? Or was I just blind all these years? And how do you go on living, understanding that you spent thirty-two years with someone who stole your last savings and doesn’t even see it as something wrong?

****

For fifteen years I had been saving money for our old age. Every month I put aside whatever I could spare — from groceries, from myself, from little things. My husband didn’t know about this hiding place; I wanted to surprise him when we retired. Yesterday I decided to count the savings — I took out the box and opened it with trembling hands. There wasn’t a single cent inside. Only a note written in his handwriting. I unfolded it, started reading — and my legs nearly gave way because of what was written there…
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