He was silent. He just stood there and was silent, unable to look me in the eye. His silence was louder than any confession. It was the trigger that divided my life into “before” and “after.” In one second, everything collapsed: trust, love, hope. All that remained was a ringing emptiness and the icy realization of betrayal.
My husband, the man I trusted more than myself, had stolen money from me. Money that was intended to save my father’s life. And he did it in collusion with his mother. I looked at him, at his pathetic, hunched figure, and felt nothing but contempt. The pain would come later. For now, there was only a cold, absolute void.
The silence in the bank hall seemed deafening. I could hear the hum of the computer’s system unit on the teller’s desk, an elderly man coughing somewhere at the back of the hall, the ticking of the large wall clock. Every second stretched into an eternity. I was still looking at Igor, waiting for him to say something, to scream, to start making excuses, anything to break this torturous silence. But he continued to stand there, his head sunk into his shoulders, staring at that stupid poster with a smiling family advertising a mortgage.
— “How?” — It was the only word I could force out. It sounded hoarse and alien, as if someone else had spoken it.
— “With a power of attorney,” — the teller answered for him, looking at me with sympathy. — “A power of attorney in your name, notarized, was provided.”
Power of attorney. A memory flashed in my mind. A week ago, on the very day I returned from Zhytomyr, Igor had slipped me a paper to sign.
— “Marina, please sign this,” — he had said then. — “It’s for the management company, so I can pick up the utility bills for you while you’re away. They only give them to the owners now.”
I was so exhausted from the trip and worried about my father that I signed it almost without looking. I only saw my passport details and the words “power of attorney.” I couldn’t have imagined…
— “I want to see this power of attorney,” — I said, addressing the girl. My voice had gained firmness; the shock was beginning to pass, giving way to a cold, ringing rage. My professional instincts, dormant for three years, were awakening. I was no longer a confused wife; I was becoming the head of security again.
— “I can’t show it to you,” — the girl replied guiltily. — “It remains in the bank’s archive, but I can print you an account statement.”
— “Print it,” — I snapped.
While the printer whirred, spitting out page after page, I turned to Igor again.
— “Where did you put the money?” — I asked, looking him straight in the eye.
This time he couldn’t stand my gaze and looked at me. There was fear in his eyes, guilt, and… resentment. He was resentful!
— “For Mom?” — he muttered. — “She… she has an operation. That professor from abroad…”
— “What operation?” — I laughed bitterly. — “Igor, are you serious? You believed that nonsense? She doesn’t have any rare disease. She made it up to get money from us. Money that was needed for my father’s surgery. A real surgery. Don’t you understand?”
He finally spoke, and his voice broke into a shout. People in the hall began to turn around.
— “She was very ill! She was crying, saying that if she didn’t have this procedure, she could become disabled. What was I supposed to do? Watch my mother suffer?”
— “And you don’t care about my father?” — I shouted back, no longer caring about decorum. — “He could die, do you understand that? Die! And you gave our last money for your mother’s made-up illness!”
— “It’s not our last money!” — he yelled. — “There’s still 380 thousand left. Enough for a down payment.”
— “And where do we get the rest, Igor? Where?!”
He fell silent, not knowing what to say. The teller handed me the statement. I took it with trembling hands. Everything was as she said: the day before yesterday at 2:00 PM, cash withdrawal, 570 thousand.
I turned and walked towards the exit. I couldn’t be near him anymore. The air in the bank had become heavy; I was suffocating.
— “Marina, wait!” — he shouted after me.
I didn’t turn back. I ran out onto the street and greedily gasped the cool autumn air. I walked without looking where I was going, tears streaming down my cheeks, mixing with the rain that had started to drizzle. I walked and thought of only one thing: what do I do now? How do I tell my mom there’s no money? Where do I find half a million in a week?
I wandered around the city for several hours until I was completely soaked and frozen. Then I got into a taxi and went home. Not to our shared apartment, but to my parents’. Or rather, to their empty apartment—my mom was with my father at the hospital. I opened the door with my key and entered the familiar hallway from my childhood. Everything here smelled of home, my mother’s perfume, and my father’s cologne. I went to my old room, collapsed on the bed, and burst into tears.
I cried from helplessness, from resentment, from betrayal. My world, which I had so carefully built, had collapsed in an instant. My phone was blowing up with calls and messages. It was Igor. I declined. Then messages started coming in: “Marina, I’m sorry,” “I didn’t mean to,” “I’ll explain everything,” “Marina, please pick up the phone,” “We need to talk,” “I’m a fool, I know, but I love you.”
He loves me. What a cynical, empty word. If he loved me, he wouldn’t have betrayed me.
Then Lyudmila Anatolyevna called. I answered.
— “So, did you talk to my son?” — her voice was full of gloating.
— “You knew what that money was for,” — I said, my voice icy.
— “Of course, I knew. For your father’s surgery. But you know, sweetie, charity begins at home. My health is more important to me. And to Igor, as you can see, too. He chose his mother, not your father. It has always been this way and always will be. Remember that.”
— “You’re a monster,” — I whispered.
— “And you? A naive little fool,” — she laughed. — “You thought you married my son and he would dance to your tune? It didn’t work out. He will always be mine. And you? You’re just a temporary misunderstanding.”
She hung up. I sat there, holding the phone, and felt rage replacing the pain. She didn’t just steal the money. She was enjoying my grief. She was reveling in her victory. No. I will not let them win. I will find a way. I will save my father. And then… Then I will make them pay for everything. For every tear, for every minute of despair.
At that moment, in my parents’ empty apartment, with the sound of rain outside the window, I made a decision. If it’s war they want, it’s war they’ll get. And in this war, I would fight to the end.
After the conversation with my mother-in-law, I sat in a stupor for a long time. Her words, full of venomous triumph, finally tore the rose-colored glasses from my eyes. This wasn’t just a family conflict, not a misunderstanding. It was a planned, cold-blooded operation to appropriate my money. And my husband was not just an accomplice in it, but a key perpetrator. The realization of this fact was painful, but sobering. There was no more room for tears and self-pity. They were replaced by a cold, focused anger that demanded immediate action.
The first thing I did was call my mom.
— “Mom, how’s Dad?”
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