When Teresa discovers her husband secretly blew their IVF savings on a boys’ trip, she doesn’t scream. She plans. What follows is a quiet, calculated heartbreak with a view. In the end, it’s not just about betrayal but about reclaiming power, one brutal truth at a time.
When you’ve been trying to get pregnant for two years, your life starts to revolve around numbers. Cycle days. Hormone levels. Bank balances.
Last year, Mark and I agreed that we were all in. We were sitting in a diner, eating the softest pancakes and drinking bitter coffee, and we knew then.
IVF was our next step.
It wasn’t just a plan. It was a promise. We cut back on everything.
No vacations. No birthday splurges. I took on extra freelance work. Mark picked up overtime work. Every time we deposited money into the IVF fund, we’d clink our mugs and say, “One step closer to Baby!”
It was cheesy as heck, but it felt like a mantra of sorts. A good omen. And after trying for so long, I wasn’t above being superstitious this time. Everything needed to be perfect. And we needed to be serious.
I cried the morning we hit $18,000. Not because it was a lot of money, though it was. But because it was hope — finally, tangible hope. The kind that I hadn’t allowed myself in a long time.
We were getting closer.
“I can almost see it,” I said, smiling at Mark. “Soon, we’ll be parents and every single sacrifice would have been worth all the tears.”
Then, three weeks ago, my husband told me he had a conference out of state.
“It’s just for a week,” he said. “But it will go by so quickly. Besides, you can have some time for yourself.”
The morning he left, Mark stood in our bedroom in a button-up shirt he rarely wore and kissed me goodbye.
“We’re so close. Just a little longer, babe. We’re going to have a mini-Mark or a mini-Teresa running around soon!”
But he had no idea what he’d just set in motion.
A few days before Mark was scheduled to come home, I sat at our dining room table with my laptop, a bowl of grapes, and a mug of raspberry tea. I was trying to book our consultation at the clinic when I opened our joint account. I wanted to be sure about how much we had. I wanted to have all the answers in case the clinic had questions.
Balance: $311.09.
I stared at the figure like it was a typo I was trying to understand. I refreshed the page. Three times. Same number.
I didn’t know what else to do other than call the bank. There had to be an explanation, and I would find it.
My voice shook as I tried to explain.
“There’s been a mistake,” I said, after giving my details. “It’s a savings account for a medical procedure. We’ve been adding to it all year.”
The rep was kind but firm.
“Let me see what I can find, ma’am,” he said. “Give me a second.”
That moment of silence felt like an eternity.
“Ma’am, these withdrawals have been authorized by a Mark J. Your husband?”
So, it wasn’t a mistake? It was all planned.
The next few days were a blur of cold coffee, sleepless nights, and me pretending everything was fine. I went through the motions. I worked, cooked, and replied to emails… but it was like living underwater.
I folded laundry while picturing the nursery I’d imagined. Pale green walls, white stuffed animals, a rocking chair, and a tiny bookshelf filled with dog-eared copies of the same children’s books I’d loved.
I had a name picked out, too. No one knew. Not even Mark. I whispered it once while brushing my teeth, just to hear it out loud. It would be perfect for either a little girl or a boy.
And now… nothing.
Just silence. It was as though all the hope inside me had vanished.
Instead, there was just a heavy, hollow ache where hope used to live.
I didn’t confront him when he came home. Mark was all tan and relaxed, and the faint scent of coconut and betrayal clung to his skin. I watched him put his suitcase down in the middle of the living room.
He yawned loudly and stretched out on the couch, grinning like he’d just conquered the world.
“My God, work trips are exhausting.”
I just stared at him.
But instead of screaming, I smiled.
“You’ve been so stressed out with work lately, Mark,” I said. “Especially after a work conference, too. Maybe we should take a trip. Just us. Somewhere peaceful… somewhere to reset before IVF.”
My husband’s eyes lit up.
“That sounds amazing, Teresa,” he said. “You’re the best!”
“I know,” I smiled. “It does sound great. I think we need it, too.”
That night, while Mark snored beside me, I lay awake watching the ceiling fan turn. I scrolled through my phone, but instead of looking at baby things, I found myself looking at Mark’s tagged photos on socials. And there they were.
Him at the beach with his friends. When he was supposed to be “working.” There were even a few of their girlfriends around, showing off their perfect bodies in their perfect bikinis.
I imagined all the things I’d wanted to say. All the ways I could hurt him.
And then I started planning.
The mountain spa resort I picked looked like something out of a glossy travel magazine. Glass walls, hot stone massages, and infinity pools that kissed the treetops.
It was expensive, but I paid for it myself, out of my savings.
I watched Mark float around in a pool with cucumber slices over his eyes. I watched him sip wine like he had no guilt. I watched him eat platters of fresh fruit like his body depended on it.
I imagined asking him all sorts of questions.
“Was that beach beer worth more than our child?”
“It truly must have been challenging to find time for a suntan in between work meetings… huh?”
“How can you be the world’s most selfish and inconsiderate man?!”
But I held it in. I waited. Deep down, I just prayed for strength to make it through the trip. Being around Mark was beginning to drain me, and I felt completely depleted of all energy.
On the second morning, I woke him up before dawn.
“Let’s hike to the overlook,” I said. “Let’s watch the sunrise!”
He groaned, rubbed his face, and pulled on a hoodie.
“You’re lucky I love you, Teresa,” he grumbled.
We packed light. I told him to leave his phone.
“Let’s disconnect. Let’s just be present,” I said. “And besides, I don’t think there will be signal anyway.”
He bought it.
The trail was steep and quiet. Mist clung to the trees like the universe itself was holding its breath. We walked for over an hour in silence, save for the crunch of gravel and the occasional grunt from Mark.
We stopped at a clearing, the overlook spreading wide beneath us like a secret the mountain had been keeping.
Mark dropped his bag and exhaled hard.
“Damn,” he said. “That’s insane. Worth it.”
I didn’t respond. I just stood there, staring at the misty valley.
“Hey,” he said, coming closer. “You good?”
“You know what’s funny?” I asked, not turning.
“You dragging me out here at five in the morning?” he grinned.
“No,” I said quietly. “I always imagined us doing this together. Not the hike but starting our family. Naming our baby. You holding my hand through IVF. You whispering ‘we’ve got this, Teresa’ while I cried in a clinic bathroom.”
“Babe…” his grin faltered.
“But instead, I got a lie and a bank account with three hundred bucks. You got a tan and a vacation.”
“Wait!” he exclaimed.
“I saw the photos, Mark,” I said. “Your friend’s girlfriend posted them, Jenna or something like that. The matching swim trunks. The beer tower. The ocean, Mark.”
He tried to laugh it off, but it came out thin and weak.
“Look, I… okay. It wasn’t a work thing. It was… just a quick getaway with the guys. One last…”
“One last what?” I demanded.
“One last break before we got serious,” he shifted. “Before we had this baby and the schedules and the stress. I just… needed it.”
I turned to him then, the weight of two years pressing into my spine.
“You needed it? So you stole our IVF fund? And IVF is a process, Mark! We don’t even know if it’s going to work, and you’re worried about schedules and stress after the baby comes? What baby?!”
I knew I sounded hysterical. I think a part of me was.
“I didn’t steal—”
“You drained it, Mark. Every cent we scraped together. All those months of saying no to dinners out, no to holidays and massages, me working late while you promised we were building something together. You blew it on jet skis and beer pong like some man-child.”
His mouth opened, then closed.
“You could’ve told me,” I said, quieter now. “You could’ve said you weren’t ready. But you lied. You chose yourself over our family.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he muttered. “I thought I’d make it up to you. I thought it wouldn’t matter once we had the baby.”
I stepped back, nodding slowly.
“With what money, Mark?”
He looked down.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
“You’re leaving me here?” his voice cracked.
“I’m hiking down alone, Mark. I can’t stand you right now.”
“Teresa, come on. Don’t do this.”
“I’m not. You did this,” I looked him in the eyes. “I’m just reacting. Finally.”
It took me 90 minutes to get back. I checked into the spa, ordered a cappuccino, took a long shower, and then booked a massage.
I left a note at the front desk for him.
“This is what betrayal feels like. Hope you enjoyed the view.”
He returned late that evening. Dirty. Silent. I watched him walk into the room, a man reduced to the weight of his own choices.
“I can explain,” he said.
“Don’t bother. I’ll talk, not you,” I said, handing him a manila envelope.
Inside was a notarized cancellation of our initial IVF paperwork, the termination notice for my part of the apartment lease, and a copy of my new apartment agreement.
“You can choose what you want to do about the old place,” I said. “But if you keep it, you’ll have to pay for it alone. Like you did the trip.”
He sank onto the bed, head in his hands.
“Teresa, I panicked. I didn’t know if I was ready. I thought I needed one more break before everything changed,” he said, echoing his words from the hike.
“That’s why we had sessions booked at the IVF clinic, Mark. Counselling sessions. But you blew them off. All three of them. I went alone! Now that things were getting real, you decided to rob me in silence? No. I can’t stand you.”
Mark and I are not divorced yet. But the papers are drawn up.
I’m living in a quiet apartment across town, with plants on the windowsills and a calendar free of injections, appointments, or lies.
But there is one slot on the calendar that I can’t wait for. My first appointment with an adoption agency. An appointment that’s only for me, not Mark.
Sometimes, Mark sends a photo of the sunset or a childhood photo of us. Once, he even sent a video of a baby laughing on a beach, his hands full of sand.
I don’t bother to reply. What’s the point?
Mark wanted a vacation, and he got one. He wanted to act like a child? Well, he can start over as one.
