I’ve always believed money isn’t the most important thing in a marriage. Trust is. Understanding. The willingness to show up for each other when things get hard. But the moment your husband starts blowing your salary on who-knows-what, you start seeing the world a little differently.
It began six months ago, when Andrey got laid off. The company he’d worked for eight years shut down suddenly—the owner went bankrupt after losing the fight with competitors. For my husband, it was a real blow. He’d always been proud of his job, his steady paycheck, the feeling that he was the one providing for us. And then—just like that—everything collapsed.
“You’ll find something new,” I told him, rubbing his shoulder. “You’re good at what you do. You’ve got experience. Don’t take it so hard.”
But he did take it hard. He spent days at his computer, sending out résumés, going to interviews. At first he was energetic and hopeful, but every rejection made him gloomier. By the third month, he barely left the apartment—only when he truly had to go somewhere.
I was working as a CFO for a major retail chain, and my salary was more than decent. We weren’t struggling. We could afford everything we needed and then some. Still, for Andrey it felt humiliating to live on my income.
One evening, as we drank tea in the kitchen, I said, “Listen… what if I get you an extra bank card? You could pay for things without having to ask me every single time.”
Andrey frowned.
“No. I already feel awkward enough.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “We’re a family. What’s mine is ours. It’ll just be easier for you. Want to go to the store—go. Want to grab coffee with friends—no problem.”
He argued for a long time, but I insisted. The next day I ordered an additional card linked to my account, with a monthly limit of fifty thousand rubles. I genuinely thought that was more than enough for personal spending.
The first month was fine. Andrey spent carefully—coffee, transit, little everyday things. I barely noticed the charges. Then something strange started happening.
First I saw a payment for twenty-three thousand rubles: “Imperial” restaurant, banquet hall rental. I was surprised, but I assumed maybe he was celebrating with former coworkers. I didn’t ask—didn’t want to embarrass him.
A week later, another charge: a bowling club called “Strike,” fifteen thousand. Then taxi rides—lots of small trips that added up to around seven thousand. Then another restaurant, a different one. Then a jewelry store—forty-five thousand.
I sat in my office staring at the statement, feeling ice spread through my chest. In two months, Andrey had spent over two hundred thousand rubles. Restaurants, taxis, entertainment, expensive gifts. And the whole time he’d acted like he was still sitting at home job-hunting.
My thoughts spiraled.
A mistress? Obviously, a mistress. What else? That would explain why he’d “accepted” losing his job so easily, why he’d started leaving the house more often with excuses about interviews and meeting friends. He’d found someone, and he was spending my money to impress her.
I tried to think back—were there any signs? Perfume on his shirt? No. Coming home late? Also no—Andrey always made it back by dinner. Maybe I’d missed something. Maybe I’d been so absorbed in work that I didn’t see my husband drifting toward someone else.
My hands were shaking when I called the bank. One minute on hold, then another. Finally, an operator answered in that overly sweet, professional voice:
“Hello, this is Derzhava Bank. How may I help you?”
“Hi. I want to block the supplementary card.”
“Of course. Please provide the card number.”
I read out the digits, confirmed my identity, and five minutes later the card was frozen. That was it. No access to my money. Let him try to explain now.
Andrey came home around six. He looked cheerful—he was even whistling as he took off his jacket in the hallway.
“Hey,” he said, stepping into the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”
“We need to talk,” I said, standing by the window with my arms crossed.
He stopped, catching the tension in my voice.
“Did something happen?”
“Yes,” I said. “Sit down.”
He lowered himself into a chair slowly, staring at me in confusion. I pulled out my phone, opened the statement, and placed it in front of him.
“Explain this.”
He glanced at the screen, and I watched the color drain from his face.
“Lena, I…”
“More than two hundred thousand in two months. Restaurants, bowling, taxis, a jewelry store. Do you even realize what that is?”
“I was going to—”
“Going to what? Tell me? When? When I discovered the account was empty?”
“No, it’s not like that!” His voice snapped into a shout. “You don’t understand!”
“Then explain. Explain what you’ve been spending my money on while pretending you’re looking for work.”
“I am looking for work! I really am!”
“And in the meantime you’re entertaining someone? Taking her to restaurants, buying jewelry?”
He jumped up so fast he knocked the chair back.
“What are you talking about? What jewelry? What mistress?”
“And what exactly was I supposed to think when I saw spending like that?” I fired back. “That you’ve suddenly become a philanthropist?”
“I’m not cheating on you!”
“Then tell me where the money went. Right now.”
Andrey dragged a hand across his face, and for the first time I noticed he was close to tears. He sank back into the chair and covered his face with his palms.
“It’s… it’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?”
He stayed silent—and the silence stretched so long my patience started to crack.
“Andrey! I blocked your card. Your access to my accounts is shut off. If you don’t tell me the truth this second, I—”
“Fine!” he yelled. “Fine, I’ll tell you. Just… just don’t look at me like that, okay?”
He lifted his head, and in his eyes I saw so much pain and shame that my anger evaporated for a moment.
“Do you remember what I told you about school?” he asked quietly. “About how I was… bullied?”
I nodded. He almost never spoke about those years, but a couple of times he’d mentioned it hadn’t been easy. He’d been mocked for his weight, for bad grades, for wearing old clothes.
“There was this guy,” he continued. “Max Sokolov. The ringleader. You know the type. He went after me the most. Called me names, humiliated me in front of everyone. Once he even beat me up in the bathroom. I hated him. I hated all of them.”
“And?” I said cautiously.
“A month ago, one of my classmates messaged me. They were organizing a reunion—twenty years since graduation. At first I wanted to tell them to get lost. But then I thought… it was my chance. My chance to show them who I became. That I wasn’t a loser anymore. Not that pathetic, chubby kid they could push around.”
I listened, still trying to understand where this was going.
“I lied to them,” he admitted. “I said I owned a business, that I was doing great. And when we met the first time—Lena, you should’ve seen their faces. Especially Max’s. He walked up to me and said, ‘Andryukha, buddy, you remember me?’ Like we were friends! Like he didn’t call me ‘fatso’ every day!”
“And you rented a banquet hall to impress them,” I said slowly.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I invited everyone. Ordered the best food, wine—everything. And you should’ve seen the way they looked at me. With respect. With envy. Max was practically licking my boots all evening—talking about his kids, trying to get close to me. And I… I felt like a king.”
“And then the bowling.”
“Yeah. After dinner most people left, but about ten wanted to keep going. I said I knew a place. I paid for everything. They were thrilled.”
“The taxis… you were driving people home?”
“Not only that.” His voice dropped. “I used taxis everywhere. So I wouldn’t take the metro or the bus. So I’d look… solid. Successful.”
I shook my head, not sure whether to laugh or cry.
“And the jewelry store?”
Andrey grabbed his phone.
“Wait, I’ll show you. Here.”
On the screen was a photo—people our age standing in a group, smiling, each holding a small box.
“I bought everyone who came to the first meet-up a gold tie pin,” he explained. “A keepsake. It cost forty-five thousand, but… you should’ve seen their reaction. They were stunned. They kept saying it was the best gift, that nobody had ever done something like that.”
“Hold on,” I said, trying to keep up. “The second restaurant?”
“I invited them again a week later,” he confessed. “I wanted to lock it in—make sure they remembered me that way. Another fancy place, another huge bill. It mattered to me, Lena. It really mattered.”
“And the rest of the jewelry?” My voice sounded tired, even to myself. “The garnet earrings for twenty-three thousand?”
Andrey looked down, embarrassed.
“That was for Vera Nikolaevna,” he said. “Our homeroom teacher. The only one who ever stood up for me. She’s a good person. I wanted to thank her. I found out garnet is her favorite stone and bought her earrings. She cried when I gave them to her.”
I sat down across from him, feeling the last of my energy drain out of me.
“Andrey… do you understand what you did?”
“I do,” he said quietly. “I spent a fortune. Your money. Without asking. But, Lena—I didn’t cheat on you. Not once. I just… I wanted to feel like somebody. Not like a pathetic unemployed man, but… successful. Even if only for a little while.”
I stared at him—my husband of ten years—and for the first time in months I saw him as… small. Scared. Like a child who never let go of what those school years did to him.
“Show me all the photos,” I said. “Everything you have.”
He handed me his phone obediently. I scrolled through picture after picture. Andrey smiling in the middle of the group. Andrey with his arm around some man—probably Max. A group shot at the bowling alley, everyone wearing the venue’s shoes and holding bowling balls. The teacher holding her gift, crying with genuine joy.
In every photo, my husband looked happy—nothing like the last few months, when he’d been crushed, lost, withdrawn. Here he looked alive, proud, confident.
And that’s when it hit me: I wasn’t looking at a deceiver.
I was looking at a schoolboy.
A kind, naive, slightly chubby schoolboy who had spent two hundred thousand rubles just to prove to his childhood bullies that he mattered.
“Andrey,” I said, handing the phone back. “You’re an idiot.”
“I know,” he nodded.
“You wasted a huge amount of money on people who tormented you as a kid.”
“I know.”
“You lied to them about owning a business, about being successful—pretended to be someone you’re not.”
“I know.”
“And you never once thought how painful it would be for me to see all those charges and have no idea what was happening.”
He looked at me with tears brimming in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to deceive you. I was just… ashamed. You work, you achieve things, and I… I can’t even find a job. And I wanted to feel important to someone. Successful. Even if it was fake.”
I stood up, walked over, and rested my hands on his shoulders.
“Listen to me,” I said. “You’ve always been important to me. Not because of your salary or your title. But because you’re kind. Honest. Caring. Because you make me tea in the mornings. Because you iron my clothes. Because you hug me when I’ve had a terrible day. Do you understand?”
“But I let you down.”
“Yes,” I said. “You did something stupid and irresponsible. But you didn’t betray me. That’s what matters.”
Andrey wrapped his arms around me and pressed his face against my stomach, and I felt his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I stroked his head and thought about how strange people are—how we’ll spend a fortune just to prove something to people whose opinions, deep down, should mean nothing to us.
“I’ll pay you back,” he rasped at last. “Every ruble. I’ll find work and I’ll return it.”
“You will,” I said. “And you will. But you can never lie to me again. Never. No matter what happens.”
“I promise.”
“And forget those classmates,” I added. “Don’t message them, don’t meet them, don’t try to impress them. They’re not worth it.”
He nodded, still holding on to me.
We stood like that in the kitchen until it was completely dark outside. Then I reheated dinner, we ate in silence, and Andrey went to the bedroom.
I stayed by the window alone, thinking. About how easily we fool ourselves. How tightly we cling to ghosts from the past. How afraid we are of looking weak. My husband hadn’t been fighting unemployment—he’d been fighting his own demons. The memory of that humiliated boy he used to be.
And in that fight, he lost—because he decided money and showy success could heal old wounds. But wounds don’t heal that way. They heal through acceptance—of yourself, your past, your mistakes.
The next morning Andrey got up earlier than usual. I heard him moving around in the kitchen, and a minute later he came into the bedroom carrying a tray: coffee, toast, jam—my favorite breakfast.
“Good morning,” he said uncertainly. “I was thinking… maybe we can start over?”
I smiled.
“Maybe.”
“I have an interview today,” he said. “A construction company. Head of sales department.”
“Good,” I told him. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” He hesitated in the doorway. “And… I wrote in the class chat that I won’t be coming to any more meet-ups. I said I’m swamped with work.”
“Good.”
“And Max messaged me,” Andrey added with a bitter little laugh. “He asked if I wanted to invest in his project. Can you imagine? He just wanted money—that’s why he was being so nice. You were right. They aren’t worth it.”
He left for the interview, and I stayed behind sipping my coffee, thinking about how love is a strange thing. It makes you forgive what you once thought unforgivable. It gives a second chance to someone who may not deserve it. And it can turn even the darkest suspicions into something almost absurd.
My husband hadn’t cheated on me. He’d just been trying to reinvent himself in the eyes of people he should’ve stopped caring about years ago.
And that was his biggest mistake.