I saved every cent—every extra shift, every sacrifice—for our ideal home. I utilized public transportation when I could have driven, packed my own lunch rather than buying takeout, and even skipped vacations. My husband? He didn’t save much. He always gave me the same slack excuse when I brought it up: “No rush.” “You handle money really well.” “You own what is mine.”
I should have realized something wasn’t right.
His parents arrived one evening, behaving like kings and queens, just as I was about to indulge myself in a modest treat—a gourmet coffee from the restaurant down the street. His father grinned as if he had won the lottery, and his mother sat down on my couch as if she were examining a throne.
My MIL said, “Let’s discuss your house fund.”
I scowled. “What?”
As pompous as ever, my FIL leaned forward. “We discovered a larger house. We reasoned that since you have so much money, why not keep it in the family?
I blinked. “Pardon me?”
As though to ward off my perplexity, his mother waved her hand. We have allowed you to reside in our home for the last two years, after all. You owe us.
My coffee almost choked me. “Are you owed? For what purpose? I did all the cooking, cleaning, and grocery shopping!
MIL gave a tongue-click. “That is insufficient.”
My husband cleared his throat and puffed out his chest before I could even think of a reply. “Really… I thought I should take care of myself since we’re spending our savings.
I felt a surge of fear. “Our funds? “Do what?”
With a childlike smile, he revealed a surprise birthday present. “Get a motorbike! I’ve want one all my life!
I gazed. At him first. His parents then gave him a signal of approval. Then, still smiling foolishly, back at him.
I took a breath. then let out a slow exhale. Then I grinned. “You know what? You’re correct. The time has come to give back.
I took the initiative the following morning.
Everything I had purchased for that house was packed away. The television? Lost. The washing machine? Captured. The plush carpets? Out the door, rolled up. Even my FIL’s beloved, high-end coffee maker? into my vehicle’s trunk.
After that, I went to the bank and transferred all of my savings into an account that was solely in my name. And that deposit my husband surreptitiously put in our names for the motorcycle? canceled. That sum of money? Poof. Lost.
My sister was more than willing to assist, even though she had never liked my husband. She even had some buddies with her. My belongings were gone and my new apartment was ready in less than an hour.
My MIL was furious by the time she returned home.
She gritted her teeth and screamed, “Where is all my stuff?”
I took a drink of my coffee. “You mean the items I purchased? Since you obviously didn’t value them, I assumed you wouldn’t mind if I took them away.
A beautiful shade of red came over her face.
I added politely, “The years of using them and the bedroom furniture I left should cover my part of the rent.” “The others? Your lazy son can teach you. He probably still has a few cash in his savings account.
My husband eventually woke up at that point. “Hold on—what?”
I grinned at the mess I was leaving behind, rearranged my coat, and picked up my bag. “I’m done with you all.”
His father was cursing, his mother was crying, and my husband was stuttering as I left, still unable to comprehend how everything had gone against him.
And what do you know? That day, the coffee tasted especially delicious.
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