My child is four years old. Four. They are brilliant, curious, a tiny sponge soaking up the world. Every morning, they ask, “Can I go to big kid school today?” And every morning, a piece of my heart breaks a little more when I have to say, not yet, my love.
Preschool. It wasn’t just a want; it was a need. A foundation. A place for them to learn, to grow, to socialize beyond the four walls of our small apartment. I saw the ads, heard the other parents talk, watched my child gaze longingly at the kids playing in the park from behind the fence.
I brought it up, gently at first. Then with more urgency.”Honey, about preschool. There’s an opening at the community center, it’s not too expensive, we could maybe swing it?”
A close-up shot of a woman’s face | Source: Midjourney
He’d always smile, a tired, apologetic smile. “I know, love. Believe me, I know. But we just don’t have the money right now. We’re stretched thin, you know? Just until I get that promotion, things will be better. We have to be smart.”
I trusted him. I really did. He managed all the bills, all the finances. He was so meticulous, always tracking every penny. I believed him when he said every extra dollar went into keeping our heads above water, covering utilities, food, the occasional new pair of shoes for our growing child. He was the responsible one. The provider.
But a tiny, insidious worm of doubt began to burrow.
He always had the latest phone. “Work expense,” he’d say. He’d buy new tools for his ‘projects,’ expensive ones. “Investment,” he’d insist. Meanwhile, my clothes were years old, my shoes had holes, and the only “treat” I got was a cheap coffee once a week. I didn’t mind, not really. As long as our child was okay, I was okay.
But the preschool. The longing in my child’s eyes. It was a constant ache.
“Are you sure, honey? Could we look at the budget together, maybe cut something else?” I’d ask, trying to be reasonable.
He’d get quiet. A little defensive. “You think I’m not trying hard enough? You think I want our child to miss out? I’m working myself to the bone for us. Trust me, if we had it, they’d be there.”
A man talking | Source: Midjourney
And I would back down. Guilt would wash over me. He was working long hours. He did seem stressed. I pushed the doubt away, swallowed the lump in my throat, and tried to find free activities, playdates, anything to fill the void.
Then came the day the internet went out.
He was out, of course. “Work.” I needed to pay the bill online to restore service immediately, but I didn’t have the login. I called him. He sounded annoyed. “I’m busy! Can’t it wait?”
“No, the internet is completely down. Our child needs it for their online story time. Just give me the login, please.”
There was a long pause. He relented. He gave me the password to our joint bank account, the one I rarely ever looked at because he always handled everything.
I logged in. Fixed the internet bill. And then… curiosity, or maybe that tiny worm of doubt, took over. Just a quick glance. See how tight things really are.
My eyes scanned the recent transactions. Bills paid. Groceries. The usual. Then, a line item. A recurring transfer.
To “S. Miller.”
A close-up shot of a man’s eyes | Source: Unsplash
My heart gave a little skip. Who is S. Miller? A new client? An old debt? The amount. It was substantial. It was more than our monthly rent. It was more than my entire part-time income. And it was happening like clockwork, on the first of every month.
I clicked on “past statements.” The transfers had been happening for almost two years. Two years! Since just after our child’s second birthday. The exact time he started telling me we were “stretched thin.”
My fingers trembled. I scrolled back, tracing the money trail. This wasn’t a one-off. This was a sustained, significant outflow of our “non-existent” money.
Panic started to bubble. ALL CAPS WAS FORMING IN MY MIND. I needed to know. I clicked on the recipient’s name within the bank’s transaction history, hoping for a clue. It didn’t show much, just the name and the bank routing number.
I opened a new tab, my mind racing. “S. Miller” and the bank’s general location. It was a small, almost desperate search. Maybe a relative? A charity? My brain tried to rationalize, but my gut was screaming.
Then, a listing. A public record. A small property deed in a town about an hour away. The owner: “S. Miller.” And associated with that address… a birth record.
My breath hitched. I clicked.
A woman looking straight ahead | Source: Pexels
Date of birth. A child. A boy. Born four years ago. Just a few months after our child.
I saw the mother’s name listed. Sarah Miller.
And the father’s name.
MY WHOLE BODY WENT COLD. My blood turned to ice. It was his name. Our last name. His full name.
NO. NO, THIS CAN’T BE. MY MIND SCREAMED.
I kept digging. I found a local school website. Enrollment lists. A photo of a school event. Kids playing. And there, in the background, a woman laughing. Sarah Miller. She looked… kind. She looked… like someone who belonged. And next to her, a little boy. A little boy with his eyes.
The pieces slammed together with a sickening crunch. The “work” trips. The late nights. The constant excuse of “no money.” The way he’d clam up whenever I talked about finances.
It wasn’t a gambling addiction. It wasn’t a secret investment gone wrong. It wasn’t even a mistress he was buying lavish gifts for.
He had another family.
A whole other life.
A man looking down | Source: Midjourney
Another child. A son, the same age as our daughter. A child he was actively, lovingly providing for. Paying their rent, their school fees, their clothes, while telling me, telling us, that we couldn’t afford preschool for our child.
The money wasn’t gone. It was being used. To build a life, a family, a home… that wasn’t ours.
The quiet suffering, the constant striving, the guilt I felt for even wanting a little bit more for our child… it was all based on a lie. A carefully constructed, cruel, devastating lie.
He walked in an hour later, whistling, looking tired but content. He looked at me, still sitting at the computer, my face undoubtedly pale, my eyes probably wide with shock.
“Everything okay, love?” he asked, a soft smile on his face.
I couldn’t speak. I looked at his smiling face, the face I had loved, the face I had trusted, and all I could see was a stranger. A betrayer.
And all I could hear was his voice: “We just don’t have the money, love.”
He had the money all along.
He just wasn’t spending it on us.
