When I married Craig, I knew his relationship with his mother, Eleanor, was delicate. She was proud and private, and we agreed to send her $400 a month—split evenly between us—to help her out. Craig insisted on mailing it himself, saying she loved handwritten notes and postcards. I trusted him. That trust shattered the day I found a torn $20 bill—the same one I’d given him—hidden in his drawer, along with a stash of cash.
I didn’t confront him right away. I observed quietly as he continued his lie, even skipping the post office while pretending to send the check. When I found out his upcoming “business trip” was actually a gambling getaway with friends, I knew I had enough. I called my parents and Eleanor, and together, we staged a confrontation at the airport on the day of his supposed flight. Craig froze when he saw us, and Eleanor’s heartbreak was quiet but cutting.
“I waited every month,” she said, holding back tears. “That’s not love.” I gave Eleanor every dollar I found, plus a little more. She held the envelope like it was sacred—not for the money, but for what it meant. We walked away from Craig that day. He didn’t follow. He came home to a quiet house, but I was already preparing the divorce papers. The locks would be changed next. I had nothing left to say.
This wasn’t just about stolen money—it was about how effortlessly he lied to his mother and me.When the divorce was final, I mailed Eleanor a homemade cranberry pie with a note: “You were always the best part of Craig.” She sent one back: “Thank you for reminding me I deserved better too, Tatiana. You are loved, my girl.”