For thirty-eight years, every Tuesday, my husband went to the bank. I felt the consequences of this routine from the very first Tuesday he was gone

I expected anything — secret debts, confessions, insurance. But not this.

Inside the box were dozens of documents: statements, bills, bank cards. Many cards. The balances were dizzying.

Amounts with six and seven zeros. Money whose existence I had never even suspected.

I pulled out folder after folder and slowly began to understand. He wasn’t just an accountant. He was a system. A mechanism. The documents revealed manipulations in various companies: altered numbers, diverted funds, perfectly masked transactions. Everything clean. Everything “legal.” Almost.

All my life, I had considered him an honest man. We lived paycheck to paycheck, counted every purchase, saved for a rainy day. I never questioned why — I trusted him.

And now he was gone.

Continue reading…