When our daughter turned three, I started touring preschools—nothing fancy, just a place where she could learn her ABCs and I could work without constant meltdowns. I cut back on takeout, paused my gym membership, picked up extra freelance work. Every spare dollar, every spare minute, was for that dream. I pictured her little face, beaming with new knowledge, making friends. It was all I lived for. I was exhausted. Bone-deep, soul-weary exhausted. Early mornings, late nights, working while she napped, working after she was asleep. Was this all worth it? I’d sometimes wonder, staring at my reflection, seeing a stranger with tired eyes. My partner, he tried, I guess. He’d say he was contributing, that we’d get there. But the numbers never seemed to add up, and I felt like I was rowing the boat alone in a storm. I’d show him the spreadsheets, the rising costs. He’d just nod, tell me not to worry, that he’d handle it.
We finally found the perfect little place. Sunshine yellow walls, a kind-faced teacher, a small garden. It was a stretch financially, even with all my extra effort, but I told myself it was for her. I dipped into the emergency fund we’d built up for ‘just in case’ – things were definitely ‘just in case’ now. I made the first deposit, feeling a mix of triumph and terror. I told my partner, and he hugged me tight, saying how proud he was. A small weight lifted, but a bigger one settled in.
Two weeks later, the school called. A polite, hesitant voice on the other end. “I’m calling about the outstanding balance, ma’am. We haven’t received the second payment. And your initial deposit…it bounced.” My blood ran cold. Bounced? IMPOSSIBLE. I’d moved the money myself, double-checked. My hands started to shake. “There must be a mistake,” I stammered. “I’ll check the account immediately.”
I logged in, heart pounding in my ears. The emergency fund, the money I’d painstakingly saved for years, the money I’d already transferred for her future. I scrolled through the transactions, my eyes scanning, searching, desperately hoping for a glitch, a bank error. But there was no error. The money was gone. Not transferred to the school. Not moved to another savings account. Just… gone. Drained by a series of increasingly large, recurring payments to a single, unfamiliar vendor.
The vendor name hit me like a physical blow: “Elite Sports Betting.” My stomach dropped. I scrolled back, tracing the pattern. The amounts grew steadily, then exponentially. It wasn’t just a recent thing. This had been happening for months. Years, even. All the times he said he was working late, all the times he was “managing our finances.” All the times I worried about being able to afford this, while he said he’d “handle it.” He hadn’t been contributing. He hadn’t been supporting. He had been systematically emptying our future, bet by bet, for a secret addiction. The realization crashed over me: every single sacrifice I made, every sleepless night, every ounce of effort, was to fill a hole he was digging deeper and deeper, silently, right under my nose. I looked at the little yellow school flyer, then at my daughter’s drawing taped to the fridge. IT WAS ALL A LIE.
