'I’d Leave Him If I Had the Means'

Editor’s Note: This article previously appeared in a different format as part of The Atlantic’s Notes section, retired in 2021.

That’s how this reader describes her husband and how trapped she feels because of his financial recklessness:

I concur with so much in Neal Gabler’s article. I often say, “We are one veterinarian visit away from disaster.” In truth, we are closer than that: Our elderly dogs need medical attention that we cannot provide.

My husband hid our financial instability from me. I had no idea that he did not pay our mortgage for 11 months. He explained away the cars coming by taking pictures of the house by saying, “We’re a couple of months behind and the bank is trying to scare us.” I had no idea we were being evicted until a marshal came to the door and served me with papers.

I also have no idea where the extra $1200.00/month that should have gone to the mortgage went. Meanwhile, our roof leaked so bad that when it rained I had to run around moving all the furniture; the rats gnawing in the walls kept my daughter and I up every night; I served potatoes for dinner 10 out of 12 nights because we had no other food; there was a hole opening up in the boys’ wooden bedroom floor that I covered with duct tape to keep bugs out.

My husband drank heavily and kept to himself, hiding the missteps he had made financially. I had no idea that he owed every check-cashing place in town. I just knew that when the electricity guy showed up to turn us off, or the water company came to shut off the water, my husband managed to “save the day” every time and come up with money. He had signed up for every disreputable credit card that he could find on the internet and never paid a dime on them.

We have been renting a trailer with our three, now teenaged children, for almost five years. I have had issues finding work, since not too many employers want to hire a 55-year-old woman (you can count on one hand the interviews I’ve actually been called for over the past five years.) The last young interviewer actually asked me if I was healthy enough to do the job (cashiering.)

My husband’s love affair with check-cashing places, disreputable internet loans, and credit cards has continued since we’ve been here. He’s an adult and I can’t stop him. I’m so angry that we no longer share a room, or even words. My daughter and I share the master bedroom. I’d leave him if I had the means.

I do not cultivate friendships because I am so ashamed of our lives and how stuck I am. Two of our kids suffer clinical depression; one is on medication.  Aren’t I supposed to be able to help my children? Aren’t I supposed to be a strong enough woman to get away from a dead marriage?

My bank account balance right this minute is .10, and my savings that I valiantly keep trying to “get going” is $4.39. One step away from disaster.