Instead of losing my temper when I learned that Mark had secretly spent our IVF funds on a boys’ trip, I plotted my retaliation. It was a deliberate regaining of power, one harsh truth at a time, rather than merely betrayal.
Every aspect of my life had turned into a series of numbers after two arduous years of trying to conceive: bank balances, hormone levels, and cycle days. I can still clearly recall that quiet morning in a diner when Mark and I decided that IVF was the best course of action while enjoying mild pancakes and bitter coffee. It was a promise, not just a plan. We gave up luxuries, such as birthday treats and vacations. While Mark took on overtime, I took on additional freelance work. We celebrated each deposit into our IVF fund with a hopeful toast and a clink of our coffee mugs: “One step closer to Baby!”
The morning our balance reached $18,000, I sobbed—not only because it was a substantial amount, but also because it gave me hope that I hadn’t had in years. “I can almost see it,” I recall saying with a smile to Mark. We will soon become parents, and all of the hardships will be worthwhile. I imagined a nursery with white stuffed animals, light green walls, and a small bookshelf brimming with treasured children’s literature. I even secretly chose a name, one that would work for both a son and a daughter, and whispered it to myself as I brushed my teeth. I thought everything was perfect.
Then Mark mentioned in passing that he had an out-of-state conference three weeks ago. I could use the time to unwind, he assured me, adding, “It’s only for a week.” He said, “We’re so close,” as he bid me farewell that morning while wearing a button-up shirt that he hardly ever wore. Give it a little more time, sweetie. A miniature version of Mark or Teresa will soon be running around! I grinned as I went along, not realizing the impending storm.
Before scheduling our next IVF consultation, I checked our joint account a few days prior to his return while seated at our dining room table with my laptop, a bowl of grapes, and a mug of raspberry tea. A startling $311.09 was shown on the balance. I kept refreshing the page in the hopes of finding an error. My heart was racing when I called the bank and the agent confirmed that Mark had approved all withdrawals. It was a covertly planned betrayal, not an error.
The days that followed were a blur of chilly coffee and restless nights. I went about my daily activities as though I were underwater: working, cooking, and responding to emails. During quiet times when I was folding laundry, I thought about the future we had promised one another and the nursery I had envisioned. All that hope, however, had now become a hollow, heavy ache.
I didn’t confront Mark right away when he eventually came back, tanned, at ease, and smelling slightly of coconut and dishonesty. With a relaxed smile, he set his suitcase down in the living room, stretched on the couch, and yawned. “Gosh, work trips are so draining,” he said. I just gave him a sweet smile after staring at him. “Mark, you’ve been under a lot of stress at work. Perhaps before our next IVF session, we should go somewhere quiet and just the two of us to recharge. “That sounds fantastic, Teresa,” he said with a smile as his eyes brightened. You are the greatest! However, as I lay awake that night, looking through his social media tags rather than pictures of babies, I came across indisputable proof: pictures of him with his friends at the beach, flirting with a few women, while he was meant to be at work.
That restless night, I planned. With its glass walls, hot stone massages, and infinity pools tucked away among treetops, the mountain spa resort I reserved looked like a glossy travel magazine come to life. I used my personal savings to cover the cost. I silently practiced all the scathing questions I would ask Mark as I pictured him floating in a pool with cucumber slices over his eyes and drinking wine guilt-free. However, I refrained from speaking, preferring to wait for the ideal opportunity.
I woke him up before the sun came up the next morning. I proposed that we hike to the overlook to observe the sunrise. Mark groaned and put on a hoodie before grudgingly agreeing. I told him to stop using his phone and to be totally present instead. The only sounds we could hear were the crunch of gravel and our own footsteps as we trudged along a steep, mist-filled trail. Mark sighed, “Damn, that’s insane,” as he dropped his bag at a clearing overlooking the valley below. Worth it. I remained silent and stared at the horizon until he inquired about my well-being.
As I sobbed in a clinic restroom, I said softly, “I always pictured us beginning our family together—naming our child, you holding my hand during IVF, and whispering, ‘We’ve got this, Teresa.'” Rather, I received a lie and had my account depleted to $300. You took a vacation and got tanned. He tried to laugh but failed. “See, I—” he stumbled. It had nothing to do with work. He gave a feeble explanation, saying, “It was just one last break before we got serious.” “A final respite? Mark, you depleted our IVF fund—every penny we gave up for hope. Like a spoiled man-child, you wasted it on beer pong and jet skis.
“You could have told me you weren’t ready,” I demanded, my voice shaking with rage. However, you decided to lie and put yourself before our family. Mark, with what money? When he was unable to respond, I said, “I’m going.” “You’re leaving me here?” he pleaded. “I’m hiking down alone, Mark,” I answered. Right now, I can’t stand you. I returned to civilization after ninety minutes. I took a long, cleansing shower, scheduled a massage, ordered a cappuccino, and checked into the spa when I got home. “This is what betrayal feels like,” I wrote in a note I left at the front desk. I hope the view was enjoyable to you.
A filthy, quiet Mark came back that night. I presented him with a manila envelope that included a copy of my new apartment agreement, a termination notice for my portion of our apartment lease, and a notarized cancellation of our IVF paperwork. I met him with a detached demeanor. You can choose what to do with the old place, but if you keep it, you’ll be responsible for paying for it on your own, just like you did with that trip, I said. Mark mumbled weakly about panic and not knowing how to say goodbye as he sank onto the bed with his head in his hands. He claimed, “I panicked because I wasn’t ready.” “I assumed everything would be alright with one more break.” I interrupted him with a sharp voice, “Mark, that is the reason we scheduled counseling sessions at the IVF clinic. However, you blew off each and every one. Now that reality has set in, you silently robbed me. You are unbearable to me.
We have not yet filed for divorce, but I now live in a peaceful apartment across town with plants and a calendar devoid of appointments, injections, and lies. I’m excited to take advantage of a new time slot on my calendar: my first appointment with an adoption agency that is just for me. I no longer respond when Mark sends me a picture of a sunset, a childhood photo, or even a video of a laughing baby on the beach. He wanted to act like a kid—well, he can start over as a kid—and he got a vacation.
How would you have responded?
