My Ex-husband Threw A $10,000 Card At Me While Leaving Me For A Younger Woman. Seven Years Later, I Finally Checked The Balance. Why Was There $2 Million In The Account?
Let me tell you a story from my life. On the day of our divorce, my husband handed me a bank card with $10,000 on it.
Outraged, I kept it hidden for seven years. The day I finally went to the bank to close the account, an employee looked at me and whispered something that made me tremble with panic.
I was huddled in a corner of the bank branch, clutching my knockoff handbag, its fake leather peeling in several spots. The line of people waiting at the teller windows was endless.
In my palm, I clutched what I had considered the greatest humiliation of my life for seven years. An old red debit card, the paint on its edges worn and chipped, had lain dormant at the bottom of an old shoe box in my closet for over 2,500 days.
It was mixed in with a pile of yellowed utility bills and some faded photos from my college days. If my landlord hadn’t made a scene that very morning, threatening to throw all my belongings onto the street if the debt I’d taken on from a lender for my mother’s treatment wasn’t coming due, I probably would have never taken it out of there.
I sighed, looking at the ticket number in my hand and then at the electronic board. I was mentally calculating the weight on this card were $10,000.
That’s what Daniel had said the day we went to the courthouse. It was a sum that seven years ago was a fortune to me and which now was my only lifeline to keep from drowning in this cruel current of life.
The memory of that day returned as vividly as if it were yesterday. It was pouring rain, a curtain of water that seemed to want to wash everything away but couldn’t cleanse the bitterness from my heart.
We had just left the courthouse, the divorce decree still fresh with ink in my hand. Daniel stood there in a black trench coat that fell below his knees, holding a half-smoked cigarette.
His face was an icy mask devoid of any emotion. He looked at me, and I will never forget that look.
It was a mixture of contempt, cruelty, and something akin to pity for an abandoned animal. He pulled this card from the inner pocket of his coat.
He didn’t hand it to me; he tossed it toward me. The card landed in a puddle of dirty water at my feet.
He took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke into the sheet of rain. He said in a frigid voice, “The pin is your birthday. There’s $10,000 on it. Take it and start your life over. Consider it payment for your youth so you never show your face to me again.”
I stood paralyzed in the rain, the water mixing with the salty tears streaming down my cheeks. I wanted to scream, to pick up that card and throw it in his face.
I wanted to howl at him that I didn’t need a traitor’s money, but my feet felt like lead. My pride was crushed by poverty, hunger, and the dead end of my reality.
In that moment, I bent down and picked up the mud-stained card. I did it not out of greed, but because I wanted to keep it as proof of his cruelty, as fuel to build a better life than his.
Daniel saw me stoop for the money, and a mocking smile formed on his lips. He turned and walked toward the luxury sedan waiting for him where a young, beautiful woman was sitting.
His back disappeared into the misty rain, leaving me alone at a crossroads in my life. A cold bank card was in my hand.
For seven years, in my most desperate moments when I had to eat instant ramen for a month straight or when life knocked me down, I would take out the card, look at it, and put it back. I was afraid that if I spent a single cent, I would have lost.
I would become the beggar of his compassion just as he wanted. But today, I had truly lost.
Pride doesn’t pay the bills. Dignity doesn’t buy medicine for my mother.
With bitterness, I admitted my crushing defeat. I needed that money to settle my debts, and then I would take a night bus back to my small hometown in Ohio to get away forever from this glittering, deceitful New York City.
The voice from the loudspeaker calling my number brought me back to reality. It was my turn.
I took a deep breath, smoothed my messy hair, and walked to window number five. I told myself that as soon as I withdrew the money, everything with Daniel would be over for good.
Behind the bulletproof glass was a very young employee with flawless makeup, bright red lips, and curled eyelashes. She glanced indifferently, almost disdainfully, at my disheveled appearance, my worn-out shirt, and the dark circles under my eyes.
It was to be expected in this place that smelled of money. Appearance is the first business card people use to gauge the respect you deserve.
Trying to suppress my humiliation, I slid the old card and my driver’s license through the slot in the glass. The employee picked up the card with two fingers as if she were afraid of catching something from the grimy, worn plastic.
She asked in a mechanical, emotionless voice, “What can I do for you today?”
I swallowed hard. My voice was a whisper, but I tried to make it sound firm. “I want to close the account and withdraw all the cash.”
The girl’s brow furrowed slightly. She probably thought there wouldn’t be enough money on such a shabby card to be worth the trouble of withdrawing it all.
Lazily, she swiped the card through the reader, her long fingers tapping rhythmically on the keyboard. Suddenly, the tapping stopped.
The space around us seemed to freeze. I saw the girl adjust her glasses and lean closer to the computer screen, her eyes wide as saucers.
Her expression shifted from initial disdain to astonishment and then to absolute panic. She looked at me, then back at the screen, and her hands began to tremble violently.
She stammered, her voice changing completely, becoming terrifyingly respectful. “Ma’am, Mrs. Laura, please wait just one moment. The system requires a verification.”
Without giving me time to react, she jumped up and disappeared through a door behind the counter. She left me sitting there in utter confusion.
My heart was pounding. Was the card blocked?
Had Daniel reported it lost long ago? Or worse, was the money connected to some illegal case I knew nothing about?
A series of terrible scenarios flooded my mind, making me want to get up and run. But my legs were shaking so much I couldn’t move them.
Less than two minutes later, a middle-aged man in a suit, his forehead beaded with sweat, came rushing out with the employee. He looked at me as if he were seeing a savior.
He hurriedly opened the counter door, came out, and gave me a deep, respectful nod. “Mrs. Laura, good morning. I’m the manager of this branch. Please follow me to the VIP lounge so we can assist you as you deserve.”
Stunned, I let them lead me to a luxurious room with a soft velvet carpet. The air conditioning circulated a cool breeze scented with a pleasant lemongrass essential oil.
They invited me to sit on a leather sofa and served me a cup of hot tea. This 180-degree change in treatment frightened me even more.
I set the cup on the table and, with trembling hands, asked, “Sir, what’s going on? I just want to withdraw the $10,000 from the card. If there’s a problem, I won’t take it.”
The manager looked at me then at the statement he was holding. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
His voice trembled with emotion. “Mrs. Laura, perhaps you misremember or aren’t aware of the information. This is a special fiduciary investment account opened seven years ago with an automatic reinvestment and compound interest clause.”
I listened to these technical terms, my mind spinning, understanding nothing. I asked him gently, “I don’t understand what you’re saying. In short, how much money is on the card?”
