I didn’t read the bank alert until ten at night. I was already in bed with my tablet, flipping through work messages, and I must’ve missed the notification when it first came in. But now it was right there on the screen:
**“Card transaction **3847: 42,000 rubles. ‘Diamond’ Jewelry.”
I read it three times.
Forty-two thousand.
A jewelry store.
At ten p.m.
Dmitry was in the living room — I could hear the TV murmuring in the background. I opened my banking app and pulled up the history for the extra card I’d added to my account two months earlier. I’d issued it to him after he lost his job. At the time it felt like a sensible, supportive move: let him keep his dignity, give him money for personal expenses while he looked for something new.
Only those “personal expenses” had turned into a financial apocalypse.
I scrolled through the transactions, and with every line my heartbeat sped up.
Restaurants. Expensive ones — Beluga, Turandot, places we’d never once gone together. Taxi rides — dozens of them, sometimes five or six in a day. A home appliance store — 68,000 rubles. Another jewelry shop — 35,000 three weeks earlier.
In two months, Dmitry had spent nearly 300,000 rubles.
I earn good money. Really good money — I run the marketing department at a large IT company, and my income lets us live comfortably. But three hundred thousand in two months on who-knows-what wasn’t “comfort.”
It was nerve.
Or cheating.
The thought hit so hard I felt sick. Jewelry. Fancy restaurants. Taxis to neighborhoods we had no reason to be in. It formed the most obvious picture in the world: an unemployed man, suddenly dependent on his wife, trying to prove to someone else — some other woman — that he still had status. Still had money. Still could pay for dinner and buy gifts.
I got out of bed and walked into the living room.
Dmitry was sprawled on the couch in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, watching a series. Relaxed. Satisfied. Way too satisfied for a man who’d been jobless for two months.
“Dima,” I said evenly. “Did you buy anything today?”
He didn’t even turn his head.
“Hm? No… I don’t think so. Why?”
I held up my phone.
“Forty-two thousand at a jewelry store. Was that you?”
He flinched and finally looked at me. For a split second something flashed across his face — confusion, maybe guilt — then he forced himself back into control.
“Oh. Yeah, that. That was me. I forgot to tell you.”
“What did you buy for forty-two thousand?”
“A chain,” he said. “A good one. Gold.”
Something cold rose in my chest.
“A chain,” I repeated. “You — unemployed — bought a gold chain for forty-two thousand. With my money.”
“Lena, it’s not even that much,” he tried to smile. “You said yourself you’re fine financially…”
“Show it to me.”
“What?”
“The chain you just bought. Where is it?”
He hesitated too long. Then looked away.
“I haven’t picked it up yet. They’re engraving it. It’ll be ready in three days.”
Of course. Convenient.
I sat down across from him and gripped my phone so hard my knuckles whitened.
“Dima, I checked your transactions. You’ve spent almost three hundred thousand in two months. Restaurants, jewelry, random nonsense. Explain what’s going on.”
His face drained of color.
“You’re tracking me?”
“I looked at transactions on my account — the one I gave you access to. And now I want to know where my money is going. That’s not a crazy question.”
“Lena, I can explain—”
“Then explain.”
He didn’t. He stared at the floor, silent — and that silence was equal parts pathetic and stubborn. It pushed me right over the edge.
“Do you have a mistress?”
He jerked like I’d hit him.
“What? No! Lena, what are you even saying?”
“You’re burning through money, buying jewelry, taking someone to expensive places, riding taxis to parts of town we don’t even go to! What else am I supposed to think?”
“It’s not what you think…”
“Then what is it?”
He covered his face with his hands.
“I can’t tell you.”
That was it.
“Perfect,” I said, standing. “Then I’m not paying for your secrets anymore. I’m blocking the card. Right now.”
“Lena, wait!”
But I was already walking to the bedroom. My hands were shaking as I opened the banking app and tapped BLOCK CARD.
Done.
I climbed into bed and pulled the blanket to my chin, even though the room was warm. Dmitry didn’t come in. I heard him pacing around the apartment, stopping in the hallway outside the bedroom, standing there a long time — but he never came inside.
Good. Let him sit with it.
The next morning I woke up before my alarm. Dmitry was gone. A note on the kitchen table said he’d stepped out “to take care of something.” I drank coffee, got dressed, and went to work, trying not to think about what was happening at home, in my marriage, in my life.
Of course I thought about it anyway.
All day. Every spare minute.
He came back late that evening. I was at the kitchen table with tea and my laptop, finishing a presentation. I heard the front door open, his shoes in the hallway, then the pause when he saw the light.
“Lena,” his voice sounded rough. “We need to talk.”
“I’m listening.”
He sat across from me. He looked awful — red eyes, no sleep — like someone had fed him through a meat grinder.
“You’re right,” he said. “I should’ve told you. I was just… ashamed.”
“Ashamed of what? Your mistress?”
“I don’t have a mistress!” he snapped, then caught himself and lowered his voice. “I never had one. I’ve never cheated on you. Never.”
“Then where did the money go?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he took out his phone and placed it on the table between us.
“Look,” he said. “Photos from the last two months.”
He turned the screen toward me.
The first photo: Dmitry and his mother in a fancy restaurant. She was wearing a new dress, smiling wide, a table full of food in front of them. Under it he’d written: “Mom’s happy.”
The second: his sister Olesya holding a box with the logo of an expensive jewelry salon. “Thanks, big bro! I’ve wanted earrings like these forever!”
The third: his brother Igor standing beside a brand-new refrigerator. “Thanks, bro. You saved me big time.”
I kept swiping.
More taxi selfies — his mother in the back seat dressed like she was headed to a gala. Messages from his sister: “Dimmy, you’re the best! You know how hard things are for us right now.”
I looked up at him.
“You spent my money on your family?”
“Yes,” he swallowed. “I know. It’s awful. But… Lena, you don’t understand what it’s like. In their eyes, I was always the successful one. I was the first in the family to get a degree. I landed a good job. I married you — a beautiful, smart woman with a brilliant career. My mom bragged about me. Olesya compared her husband to me. Igor came to me for advice.”
“And?”
“And when I lost my job, I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell them,” his voice shook. “I couldn’t destroy that image. Especially after Olesya got divorced and Igor started having problems at work. So I decided that while I searched for a job, I’d keep up the illusion that I was doing fine. Even better than before.”
I leaned back, trying to process it.
“So you bought a gold chain for forty-two thousand so they’d think you were thriving?”
“For Olesya,” he said quietly. “Earrings. For her birthday.”
“And your mom?”
“A necklace. Three weeks ago. Thirty-five thousand.”
I shook my head slowly, like my brain refused to accept what my ears were hearing.
“Dima… do you realize how stupid this is?”
“I do,” he rubbed his face with both hands. “When you blocked the card, I got angry at first. I wanted to yell. Accuse you of controlling me. But then I sat up all night thinking… and I realized what a disaster I’d made.”
“The fridge,” I pointed at the photo again. “Sixty-eight thousand.”
“The old one died,” he said quickly. “They didn’t have money for a new one.”
“And that was supposed to be your responsibility? On my account?”
“I was going to pay it back,” he blurted. “As soon as I found work. Every ruble.”
“Dima, you haven’t found work in two months. Maybe because you’re taking your mother to restaurants instead of sending resumes.”
He flinched like I’d punched him.
“I have been applying,” he insisted. “Every day. It’s just… the market is brutal right now. Too many specialists. Crazy competition…”
“And your solution was to spend three hundred thousand on showing off to your relatives?”
“I just wanted them to be proud of me,” he looked at me like a drowning man. “At least for a little while. Until I actually got back on my feet.”
I stood and walked to the window. Outside, Moscow was dark, lit up by the scattered glow of apartment windows. How many families were living through some version of this? How many men burned through household money just to look impressive to their own relatives?
I married Dmitry six years ago because he was smart and decent, with a good sense of humor. He wasn’t a millionaire — but he was reliable. Hardworking. Sensible.
A sensible man doesn’t buy his mother a necklace for thirty-five thousand while living off his wife.
“You know what hurts the most?” I turned back toward him. “Not even the money. And not even that you hid it. It’s that you chose to look successful for your mother and sister instead of being honest with me. Your wife.”
“Lena…”
“I don’t care what they think about you. I care that you lied to me. For two months. You lied for two months.”
“I didn’t lie,” he muttered. “I just… didn’t say.”
“That’s called lying by omission, Dmitry. It’s still a lie.”
He lowered his head.
“I’m sorry. I’m really an idiot.”
“Yes,” I said, surprising myself with how calm I sounded. “You are. Not a cheater. Not a villain. Just an idiot who wanted to impress his relatives at his wife’s expense.”
He sat there hunched over, and I could tell he truly felt ashamed. But I wasn’t ready to comfort him. Not yet.
“What did your mom say?” I asked. “That you’re the best son in the world? That she raised such a generous boy?”
“She said… she was proud of me,” he whispered. “That I was a real man because I could provide not only for my wife but for my family too. Olesya said her ex-husband wasn’t fit to shine my shoes. Igor said I was his example.”
“And you liked hearing it.”
“Yes,” he admitted, barely audible. “A lot. After losing my job, I felt worthless. Their admiration was like a drug. Every time I took Mom to a restaurant or bought something expensive for Olesya, I felt… needed. Important. Not like a failure who couldn’t find work for three months.”
Three months.
So he’d lied about the timeline, too. It hadn’t been two months. It had been three.
“Oh my God,” I sank back into my chair. “Dima, do you understand we need to fix this? Immediately?”
“I do,” he nodded.
“Good. Here are my conditions.”
“First: tomorrow you call your mother, your sister, and your brother, and you tell them the truth. All of it. That you’re unemployed. That the money was mine. That you behaved like an idiot.”
He went pale.
“Lena, I can’t—”
“You can. And you will. Because they need to know that their ‘generous son and brother’ was actually spending someone else’s money to look good.”
“They’ll stop respecting me.”
“Great,” I said coldly. “Let them respect you when you actually earn it again. On your own feet — not on my salary.”
He stayed quiet, jaw clenched.
“Second,” I continued, “you get a job. Any job. I don’t care if it’s your field or not, prestigious or not. It just needs to be legal income. And you work until you repay me the three hundred thousand. Every last ruble.”
“Okay,” he breathed.
“Third: no more extra cards. No more access to my accounts. Until you pay back the debt and prove I can trust you, you live on what you earn.”
“I understand.”
“And fourth,” I met his eyes, “if you ever lie to me again — or hide something important — I file for divorce. No talks. No second chances. I’m willing to stand beside you in hard times. I’m not willing to be with someone who respects me so little he can’t be honest.”
He nodded, and I saw tears rise in his eyes.
“I’ll fix it,” he rasped. “I swear. I’ll find work, I’ll repay you, I’ll make it right.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
I closed my laptop and stood.
“Go to sleep. Tomorrow you call your relatives and explain yourself. And the day after that — you look for work. For real.”
He stood, hesitated, and stepped toward me. I let him hug me, but I didn’t hug him back. I needed time. Time to forgive him. Time to believe he would actually change.
Because marriage isn’t only romance and support. It’s also the ability to face the truth — even when the truth shows you your husband isn’t a cheater, isn’t a monster…
Just an idiot who didn’t know when to stop.
Four Months Later
Dmitry called his mother the very next day, just like he promised. I heard the conversation from the bedroom — I wasn’t trying to listen, but you don’t need to strain to recognize emotions.
Shock in his mother’s voice. Anger. Then disappointment.
“How could you, Dima? Why did you lie?”
He explained. He apologized.
After he hung up, he sat at the kitchen table for a long time, staring at one spot. I didn’t comfort him. Let him swallow the consequences of his choices.
A week later he got hired as a manager at a small construction company. The salary was laughable compared to what he used to make, but it was a job. Steady. Official. With benefits.
Every month he transferred forty thousand rubles to me toward the debt. The rest went to his own expenses — transportation, lunches, clothes. He didn’t ask for money anymore. Didn’t complain. He just worked.
His mother stopped calling daily. Olesya wrote a couple of times, but the messages were stiff and formal. Igor sometimes invited us over, and Dmitry went — but I could see how hard it was for him. To notice pity in his brother’s eyes. To understand he was no longer the family hero, just a man who made a foolish mistake.
But with me… he became more honest.
He talked about work — the good and the bad. He shared doubts, fears, hopes. We started talking again in the evenings like we used to, before the money disaster.
And little by little, I began to forgive him.
Not because he was paying the money back — that would still take time, more than half a year ahead. And not because he apologized — apologies mattered, but they weren’t enough.
I forgave him because he changed.
He learned to be honest — not only with me, but with himself.
One evening, while we sat on the couch watching a movie, he turned to me and said:
“You know what I keep thinking? The worst part wasn’t losing my job. It was losing myself. I was so terrified of becoming nobody in my family’s eyes that I forgot who I actually was. And I almost lost you.”
I took his hand.
“You didn’t,” I said. “I’m here.”
“I know,” he whispered. “And I’m unbelievably grateful. That you didn’t leave when you found out. That you gave me a chance to fix it.”
“You would’ve done the same for me,” I said — and realized it was true.
We aren’t a perfect couple. We’ve had problems, and we’ll have more. But now I knew something important:
We can get through it — because we learned the main thing.
To be honest with each other.
Even when honesty hurts.
Even when you have to admit your mistakes.
Even when you find out your husband isn’t a villain…
Just an idiot who finally got wiser.