I had known Troy since we were children.
Our families lived side by side, so our lives grew together naturally—same backyard games, same schools, the same familiar rhythms. Summers felt endless back then, filled with scraped knees, late sunsets, and the certainty that the world was safe. School dances followed. Then adulthood arrived so quietly we barely noticed.
Looking back now, I realize how perfect it all seemed—and how perfection always hides something underneath.
We married when we were twenty. At the time, it didn’t feel rushed. It felt right. We had very little money, but we didn’t worry about it. Life felt simple, as if the future would unfold on its own.
Then came our children. First our daughter, then our son two years later.
A modest house in the suburbs. One road trip vacation a year. Backseat questions of “Are we there yet?”
It was so ordinary that I didn’t notice when the truth began slipping away.
After thirty-five years of marriage, I discovered money missing from our shared account.
Our son had recently sent us part of the money we’d loaned him years earlier. I logged in to move it into savings, the way I always did. The balance stopped me cold.
The deposit was there—but the total was thousands lower than it should have been.
I checked again. Then again.
Several transfers had been made over the past months.
That night, I turned my laptop toward Troy as he watched the evening news.
“Did you move money out of checking?” I asked.
He didn’t take his eyes off the screen.
“I paid some bills.”
“How much?”
“A few thousand. It balances out.”
“Where did it go?” I asked, rotating the screen toward him. “This isn’t small.”
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