If we had ended things on good terms, I would have called Mike and split every hidden stash of cash I found right down the middle. But given how things went, I believe I have every moral right to this leftover "marital property." Let me explain why I'm so certain of that.
We were married for six years. We had a daughter, bought a car, and lent $2,000 to some family friends—another married couple—out of money I had saved. I had originally planned to use that money to finally make our house feel like a home.
After the breakup, the friend's wife just shrugged and said that since Mike was the one who handed them the cash, they'd be paying it back to him. She said it was up to him whether he shared it with me or pocketed the whole thing. Naturally, my ex chose the second option.
I decided to get a divorce because I was done dealing with his monthly benders. Mike would drink until he completely lost control. He'd pass out on the hallway floor or, even worse, sitting right there in the bathroom. As our daughter got older, she started asking questions.
"Mom, why did Daddy fall down and sleep on the floor? Is that comfortable? Why won't he wake up? Why does he smell so bad?"
I decided my daughter shouldn't grow up with that kind of example. One day, I just locked the door and didn't let him in. After he passed out in the apartment corridor, I packed his bags and set them out there for him. I wasn't worried about anyone stealing them; we lived on the top floor of a secure building with a coded gate on our landing. Strangers didn't wander up there, and the neighbors were decent people.
The next morning, Mike tried pounding on the door and ringing the bell, but I wouldn't budge. I just told him through the locked door that I was filing for divorce. He eventually gave up and left for good. He has no interest in seeing his daughter and pays the bare minimum in child support. Meanwhile, he tells everyone who will listen the "tragedy" of his life: how he lived in his wife's house, did a full high-end renovation, and as soon as the paint was dry, I kicked him out like a dog.
The renovation, by the way, was a sore subject. My parents had moved in with my grandmother and gave us the keys to their old place. The walls and ceilings were literally crumbling. Later, my parents officially deeded the house to me. We started the repairs the moment we moved in, and they lasted the entire six years we were together. I only finished getting the place in order quite recently, on my own.
In the beginning, Mike was probably too embarrassed to show his true colors. He brought home half his paycheck regularly. But once I found out I was pregnant, he relaxed. Then the wheels came off. He started bringing home less and less money. He worked in construction, so he was always paid in cash.
Once our daughter was born, you couldn't even count on him showing up on payday. He'd stumble in after midnight, the clinking of bottles coming from his bag, rummaging through the house before collapsing wherever he landed. By morning, he'd claim he didn't remember a thing—not where he'd been, who he'd been drinking with, how he got home, or where the paycheck went. He'd turn out his pockets, count the few bills left, and "proudly" hand me maybe a hundred bucks for groceries. Sometimes it was less; it was never more.
I didn't realize for a while that when Mike was hammered, he would occasionally hide his cash around the rooms. I caught him once: I woke up to a noise in the hallway, but I stayed quiet and pretended to be asleep. He walked into the bedroom, went around the bed, moved the nightstand, fiddled with something, scratched his head, put everything back, and left.
Once he was out cold, I checked what he'd been looking for. There was a loose corner of the carpet under the stand. I looked under it and found a wad of bills. I should have realized then that it wasn't the first time, but unfortunately, it didn't click. The next morning, he went through the usual routine of emptying his pockets and giving me whatever change was left. I realized he didn't even remember the hidden stash. I spent that money on things for the baby.
We survived on the scraps of Mike's paychecks, my own salary—for years I wrote daily horoscopes for various websites—and help from my family. I was even the one saving up for the renovation materials, the tools, and the deliveries.
That money we lent our friends? Those were my savings, not Mike's. But he was the one who physically handed it to them. That's why they assumed it belonged to him.
Well, we're done now, and thank God for that. I finished the renovation myself. I found the first hidden stash inside a leftover roll of carpet padding. Suddenly, I remembered the money under the nightstand. It finally dawned on me that there could be more. I started searching.
I found almost all the hiding spots immediately: an old jar in the pantry, a shoeblack kit, inside the computer tower, and under the loose linoleum in the hallway where the baseboards hadn't been installed yet. I even found cash under the washing machine and out on the balcony; he'd wrapped the bills in a plastic bag and tucked them under the leg of an old chair.
It's been two years since the divorce, and I'm still finding my ex-husband's secret stashes. I bought a new wardrobe recently, and when we moved the old one to take it away, there was a pile of cash taped to the back panel. I found another one under the fridge and one inside a half-used bag of plaster. I almost want to call him and say thanks. At least he left something good behind besides our daughter.
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