For years, I sent my husband, Noor, $1,800 monthly for household costs, trusting him to manage bills while I worked as a hospital admin. Last week, I overheard him tell his mom I was “secure, reliable,” like a used car. Suspicious, I checked his laptop and found a hidden account with $48,000, funded by my transfers, labeled “Personal Investment Income.” He’d been investing my money without telling me. Feeling betrayed, I opened my own secret account, diverting $300 monthly. Then I noticed odd charges—flowers, bakery orders, Uber rides. Following a flower delivery, I met Elleni, who thought Noor was separated. She was devastated to learn he was
married. I gathered evidence—texts, receipts, account screenshots. Confronting Noor, he admitted to an affair, feeling emasculated by my income. I filed for separation, withdrew $5,100 from my account, and moved to a new apartment. Later, Elleni revealed Noor was scamming businesses with fake branding projects. I sent the details to my lawyer for a clean break. Now, I’m embracing freedom—yoga, pottery, trips—learning to trust my gut and value my worth. Love isn’t a transaction, and I’m a whole system, not a support.
