Iris’ husband left her and the children alone for three days with just a meager 20 dollars while he attended a wedding. Frustrated and desperate, she took a bold step to teach him a lesson. When he returned, he fell to his knees at the sight of her and broke down in tears.
Here’s a glimpse into Iris’ life:
“Hello! This is Iris. My life isn’t all sunshine, even though it might look that way from the outside. I’m a stay-at-home mom, taking care of an eight-year-old firecracker named Ollie and a cheeky six-year-old princess named Sophie…
My husband, Paul, has a stable job and brings home the bacon, or should I say, the chickens. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a fantastic father, showering the kids with gifts and ensuring we have everything we need.
But after our second child, things changed. Paul started focusing more on work and less on us. Gone were the spontaneous movie nights or romantic dinners. Now, when I suggested anything, it was always about work stress or needing “me time.” At first, I pushed it aside, but lately, it’s been eating at me.
Last week, something happened that shook our already strained relationship even further. Paul came home early and announced with a beaming smile that he would be taking half a day off to attend his friend Alex’s wedding. He said he would be gone for three days.
A spark of excitement flared up in me! Maybe this could be our little escape, a few days away from the constant demands of motherhood and housework. But my balloon of hope burst quickly when I found out that ONLY HE was invited.
“Why not me?” I sulked, my disappointment clouding my voice.
Paul explained that Alex was “a little weird” and wanted an intimate gathering without partners. That seemed odd to me.
“Are there any single women there?” I asked, nervously biting my nails, a habit I can’t shake.
Paul frowned, his mood shifting from casual to irritated. “Iris, come on,” he muttered. Feeling his annoyance, I tried to lighten the mood with a playful “Just kidding! Stay away from those single women, okay?”
Big mistake. He took it as an accusation, and before we knew it, we were in a heated argument. Paul accused me of being distrustful and controlling, even starting to lecture me on the “secrets of a strong relationship,” making me feel like a paranoid control freak.
But hey, I wasn’t entirely wrong, right? I lost it and reminded him that he always preferred spending time with his friends and left me alone with the kids.
“I want to enjoy life too, Paul!” I yelled, tears welling in my eyes. “What’s the point of all the money if you’re never here?”
That’s when it got eerie. Paul stared at me with wide eyes. Then, as I stood speechless, he pulled out a pathetic 20-dollar bill.
“Here,” he said, dripping with sarcasm, “if you don’t need my money, you can run the house for three days with this while I’m gone!”
He handed me the money and stormed out before I could say another word. My jaw dropped. Was he seriously suggesting I could run a household with just 20 dollars for three people? What an insult!
Through tears, I ran to the fridge, clinging to a sliver of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was enough food for three days.
But when I opened the door, my heart sank. The fridge was practically empty, with only a few juice boxes for Ollie, a single cucumber, and fewer than a dozen eggs. This wasn’t going to work. We needed food, and with only 20 dollars, I was utterly helpless.
Anger bubbled inside me. Paul knew our financial situation; there was no hidden stash of cash. He was deliberately trying to prove something, and you know what? It backfired. Now, I was determined to get back at him and make him understand how hard I fought every day. But how?
My eyes scanned the room and landed on the glass cabinet where Paul kept his precious collection of antique coins. To him, they were trophies, each one with a story, some dating back to his great-grandfather’s time.
A wicked glint flashed in my eyes. Maybe these could be the key to buying some food and teaching my husband a little lesson.
My heart raced as I reached for the cabinet. Guilt gnawed at my resolve, but the image of the empty fridge and Paul’s careless challenge spurred me on.
With trembling hands, I gathered the coins, their smooth surfaces cold against my skin. The sound of each one clinking against the glass echoed in the room, a small betrayal that gnawed at my conscience.
Ignoring the rising tide of guilt, I ran to the local antique dealer, whom I’d only admired from afar until now. The owner, a wiry man with a silver mustache, peered through a magnifying glass at the coins.
I held my breath. Would they even sell? Then, his rough yet surprisingly cheerful voice broke the tense silence. “Seven hundred dollars,” he announced, his eyes sparkling.
Relief washed over me like a tidal wave. “Sold!” I blurted out, almost shoving the coins into his hands.
But as I clutched the wad of cash, the guilt hit me full force. It wasn’t just about revenge anymore; it was about betraying Paul’s trust. Yet, the thought of my children’s hungry faces drove me forward.
I rushed into the supermarket and filled my cart with mountains of fresh fruit and vegetables, enough meat for a week, and a pile of treats for the kids.
Part of me reveled in the freedom of not having to check the price tags, but a bigger part ached for the trust I had shattered.
As I unpacked the groceries at home, humming along to a classic on the gramophone, a shadow of worry settled over me. How would Paul react when he saw that his beloved coins were gone?
I pushed the thought aside and focused on the delicious aroma of the chicken casserole coming from the oven. Tonight, there would be a feast worthy of a king—or, better yet, a queen!
Three days flew by, each minute feeling like an eternity. The silence in the house was deafening without Paul’s usual grumbling or the constant questions from the kids. Just as despair was starting to set in, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway jolted me awake.
I ran to the window and peered through the blinds. There stood Paul, a sight that sent a shiver down my spine.
A wide, almost manic grin spread across his face, completely unlike him. In his arms, he carried two shopping bags full of fresh fruit and vegetables, enough to feed an army.
That wasn’t the sight I was expecting. It was… unsettling. My heart raced as Paul practically bounced to the front door, whistling a cheerful tune.
The door flew open, and he burst in. “Iris, my love!” he boomed in his unusually loud voice. “You won’t believe the deals I found! Fresh strawberries half-price, and look at these juicy mangoes!” He handed me the bags, his eyes shining with delight.
I stood frozen, the groceries feeling like a heavy weight in my suddenly numb arms. “Paul…” I stammered.
He seemed not to hear me. He started apologizing, each apology coming with an unsettling enthusiasm. He admitted his mistakes, confessed his stinginess, and swore never to leave me again.
Then his gaze wandered to the trophy cabinet. His smile faded and was replaced by dawning horror. He took a hesitant step toward the glass cabinet, then another, his movements slow and deliberate.
My breath caught in my throat. In the heartbreaking silence, the sound of his shoes clicking against the hardwood floor echoed like a death knell. He reached out and placed his hand on the empty space where his precious coin collection had once been.
The world seemed to slow. Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision. Shame, guilt, and an overwhelming fear crawled through my stomach. Paul’s joy had vanished, replaced by a chilling stillness.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t scream. He simply sank to his knees, broke down in tears, and cried, “MY COINS??!”
The sound shattered the suffocating silence, and a flood of apologies spilled from my lips, each one a desperate attempt to make amends for the damage I had caused. But Paul remained silent, his face etched with a deep pain that pierced my soul.
Without another word, he stood up and walked past me with a look of desperation. When he reached the door, he turned to me one last time, his gaze locking with mine. It was a look of complete betrayal, a silent scream that spoke volumes.
With a soft click of the door handle, he was gone.
Tears streamed down my face, each one a bitter drop of regret. I had a mess to fix, and I had caused it myself.
I ran to the nearest pawn shop. There, under the harsh neon light, I handed over my grandmother’s ring, a precious heirloom I had received on my wedding day. The money it brought was enough to cover the cost of the coins.
I sprinted back to the antique store, the money clutched tightly in my sweaty hands. The bell above the door jingled as I burst in. Fortunately, the owner recognized me.
“Can I help you again?” he asked, raising his bushy eyebrows in surprise.
My face turned red as I spoke. “Actually, I’d like to buy the coins back.”
He blinked at me, a sly gleam in his eyes. “Buy them back? You sold them to me just three days ago.”
“Yes, I know,” I admitted, my voice thick with shame. “I made a mistake.”
After a few tense moments, he gave a slight nod, sensing my desperation. “Let me go check.”
The minutes seemed like hours, but finally, the owner returned, coins in hand. The moment I saw them, I felt the weight of the wrongness of it all.
I handed over the money, but as I looked at the coins, I wondered if the lesson had been worth it.
When I returned home, Paul was there, sitting in the living room. His gaze met mine, a mixture of shock and something softer, though hard to read.
“I’m sorry, Paul,” I whispered, my voice barely above a breath. “I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted you to understand.”
He didn’t respond immediately, but his eyes softened. “I understand,” he said finally.
And just like that, everything seemed to shift.
There would be more lessons ahead, but for now, we were together—broken, imperfect, but together.
