When I married Jeremy, we agreed to split all expenses equally, including the rent. He found the apartment and told me it cost 2,000 euros per month, so every month I transferred my share—1,000 euros—to him, and he supposedly sent that amount to the landlord.
For two years, I thought everything was fine.
But one December evening, everything changed.
I got stuck in the elevator with a neighbor. We started chatting, and then she suddenly said something that made my stomach tighten:
“You live in Mrs. Lorrie and Jeremy’s apartment, right?
Mrs. Lorrie. That meant his mother.
I was confused and asked what she meant. The neighbor, unaware of the significance of what she was revealing, smiled and said:
“Yes, Jeremy’s mother bought that apartment many years ago. At first, she rented it out, then he moved in with his ex-girlfriend, and now you two live there!”
That’s when it hit me—throughout all those years, I hadn’t just been paying rent. I had been directly supporting them, handing money straight into their pockets.
For two years, I had unknowingly given them 24,000 euros.
After all that, I didn’t explode. No, I decided to play it smart. I called Jeremy:
“Hey, honey. When is the rent due again?”
“December 28th,” he replied.
And that’s when my plan began.
For the next two weeks, I acted completely normal—laughing at his jokes, cooking dinners, and even giving him my share of the rent as usual. But deep down, I was already planning how to get my money back.
December 28th was the moment of truth.
As soon as he left, I got to work. I packed up all my things—clothes, shoes, furniture, even the coffee machine he loved so much. Then, I headed to the bank.
We had a joint account, so I decided to take back what had been stolen from me. I emptied it.
Next, I signed a lease for a new apartment and paid the first month’s rent—using Jeremy’s money.
By the time he got home, the apartment was empty. Except for one thing—a letter.
I turned off my phone and headed to my new place, ready to start a new life.
A week after I left, I ran into Jeremy on the street. His face was full of disappointment. He told me how much he was struggling with everything that had happened.
With cold confidence, I told him that he and his mother had to pay for everything they had done to me.
Three months later, I was sitting in my new apartment, signing the divorce papers. Jeremy agreed to all the terms, including fully reimbursing me for all my expenses.
I felt satisfied because, in the end, justice had prevailed.
