When I got a bank alert saying our savings were gone, my heart dropped. I thought we’d been hacked. I imagined identity theft, fraud—some stranger draining our hard-earned money. But no. It wasn’t a stranger. It was my husband, Mark. He had emptied our account behind my back. Why? To buy his mother a quaint little country house,
calling it “an early inheritance” and “a smart family investment.” He didn’t ask me. Didn’t warn me. He just handed over every dollar we had saved—our future, our security—like it was spare change. All for Mommy dearest. He expected me to understand. To be grateful, even. I was stunned. Then I was furious. And then,
