We were broke. Like, "turn off the AC in July" broke. Like, "what's for dinner? Popcorn and prayers" broke.
I had a $200 monthly budget for food. That's food, diapers, wipes, toddler snacks, and the occasional emergency medicine or shampoo. Somehow? I made it work. We didn't starve.
And he never went without his Code Red Mountain Dew. Not once.
To this day, the smell of it makes me want to vomit. Right up there with Marlboro menthols and the scent of a man yelling at me while holding a game controller.
He was mad because we didn't have "equal" spending money.
And listen, I get it, in theory.
But he was a solo adult. I was budgeting for me, a toddler, and eventually two toddlers. Kids go through more fruit snacks and emergency pantless breakdowns in public than any human can financially prepare for.
But okay, fine. Equal spending money it was.
So I did something. Something I never told him.
I hid money.
Not piles of it. Not secret bank accounts. Just a little. Quietly. Carefully.
Every grocery trip, I'd stretch that $200 budget like it was taffy. Coupons. Digital apps. Clearance meat. Aldi miracles. I'd buy the most expensive items first, get everything we needed, and if I still had wiggle room? I'd take it out in cash at the register.
Twenty here. Fifteen there.
Once, I pulled $47.36 and felt like I'd just robbed Fort Knox.
I told myself it was survival.
Because it was.
That little stash was what I used when the diaper rash cream ran out two days early. Or when I needed to feel like a person and not just a housebound accountant with a breast pump.
That money was my emergency fund. My mental health fund. My "get the hell out" insurance, even when I didn't know I'd need it yet.
I don't regret it. Not for a second.
I was smart. I was strategic. I was surviving.
So yes, I confess, I hid money from my husband.
And if you've ever looked at a grocery receipt, rounded it up, and pulled a crumpled twenty from the self-checkout machine like it was contraband, You're not sneaky. You're brilliant. And you're not alone.
He always said we were broke because I didn't have a job.
Never mind the fact that I didn't have child care. Never mind the fact that he refused to "babysit" his own children. No, clearly it was my fault. Because I didn't contribute. Because I wasn't doing enough. Because he needed someone to blame.
And I believed him.
I really did. I thought, I must be the problem.
So I started looking for something I could do. Something flexible. Something I could bring my toddler to. Something that didn't require begging my husband to watch his own damn kids for two hours.
That's when I found Mary Kay.
Makeup. Skincare. Pretty pink bottles and sparkle-laced pep talks. I didn't join for the sisterhood or the lipstick. I joined because it was hope with a starter kit. Because I needed something that was mine.
And I loved it.
The first month? I made $1,000 in sales. $300 in profit. Not bad for someone whose previous job description included 'keep toddler alive' and 'don't cry into the macaroni.'
The second month? I made $3,000 in sales.$1,000 of that was profit. I paid bills. Bought groceries. Had money of my own. And for the first time in years, I didn't feel like a burden. I didn't have to stretch our groceries like taffy. I just… bought what we needed.
I felt proud.
I was glowing. Confident. I had something to say that wasn't "I'm tired" or "I can't afford that." I was teaching other moms how to take care of their skin while taking care of themselves. I brought my kid to every party. Women connected with me. I mattered.
And that?
He couldn't handle it.
Because I was happy. Because I was independent. Because I was succeeding without him.
And that made me dangerous.
He started slowly. Snide comments. Sarcasm.
"You really think this is a real job?"
"I guess the kids don't need their mom anymore."
"You're so busy helping other people look good, maybe try doing the dishes instead."
Then came the guilt. The shaming. The twisting of my wins into accusations.
"You care more about your customers than your family."
"You're just looking for attention."
"Maybe if you spent less time with makeup and more time being a wife, we wouldn't be broke."
He made me feel selfish. Ungrateful. Vain. And day by day, insult by insult, he wore me down.
So I quit.
And guess what? We were still broke. And it was still my fault.
We were never broke. We were just bankrupt in all the ways that mattered. Because it was never about money. It was about keeping me small.