My Husband Drained $18,000 From Our Account While I Was Giving Birth. I Found Out When I Couldn’t Even Afford Baby Formula. What Do I Do Now?

The Day Everything Changed

What happened when I went to the bank 3 weeks after giving birth changed everything I thought I knew about my marriage, my life, and my own strength. I’m 72 years old now, and that day 44 years ago is still as vivid as if it happened yesterday. Some memories fade with time; this one never has.

My name is Margaret, and in 1981 I was 28 years old, working as a pharmacist in Grand Island, Nebraska. I had everything a young woman could want: a beautiful brick house on a tree-lined street, a career I’d worked hard for, and a husband named Robert who everyone in town called a good provider. Three weeks earlier, I’d given birth to our son, David.

Robert and I had met in college. He was studying business; I was in pharmacy school. He was charming, ambitious, the kind of man who made my parents smile with relief.

“Margaret’s found herself a winner,” my father had said at our wedding.

Robert came from a respected family in Omaha. His father owned a car dealership. Robert himself had just been promoted to regional sales manager for an agricultural equipment company,. On paper, we were perfect.

Signs I Missed

Looking back now, I can see the signs I missed. Or maybe I didn’t miss them; maybe I saw them and told myself I was being unreasonable, oversensitive, dramatic. That’s what Robert always said when I questioned things.

“You’re being dramatic, Margaret. You’re overreacting.”

It started small a few months after we got married. Robert suggested we combine our finances completely.

“It’s more efficient,” he said. “I’ll handle the bills, the investments. You focus on your career.”

It seemed reasonable. He was good with numbers; I was working long hours at the pharmacy. Then he suggested I didn’t need to talk to my parents so often.

“You’re a married woman now. You need to establish boundaries.”

When I wanted to visit my sister in Lincoln, he had reasons why it wasn’t a good time.

“We’re saving for a house. Do you know how much gas costs?”

When my childhood best friend called, he’d watch the clock, making pointed comments if I stayed on the phone too long. By the time I got pregnant, I was seeing my family maybe once every few months,. My friends had slowly drifted away. I told myself it was natural; we were building our own life together.

A Difficult Arrival

The pregnancy was difficult. I had severe morning sickness for the first 5 months. I kept working because we needed my income. Robert said we were saving for the baby, for the future. I’d stand behind the pharmacy counter, smiling at customers while fighting waves of nausea, counting down the hours until I could go home and collapse.

Robert was attentive during those months; I’ll give him that. He’d rub my feet, bring me crackers in the morning.

“You’re doing so well,” he’d say. “Just a little longer.”

David was born on February 3rd, 1981: 7 lb 9 oz, 10 tiny fingers, 10 tiny toes. The moment they placed him in my arms, I felt a love so fierce it physically hurt. I would have done anything for that baby, anything.

The delivery was complicated. I hemorrhaged afterward, needed a transfusion, and spent four extra days in the hospital. When I finally came home, I was weak, anemic, exhausted,. The doctor prescribed iron supplements and told me to rest, to let my body heal.

“Don’t worry about anything,” Robert said as he helped me into the house. “I’ve got everything under control.”

Isolation and Exhaustion

That first week home was a blur. David cried every 2 hours. I was breastfeeding, or trying to, but my milk wasn’t coming in well. The lactation consultant had suggested supplementing with formula.

I was recovering from the hemorrhage. My body felt like it had been hit by a truck, and I wasn’t sleeping more than 40 minutes at a time. Robert had taken 3 days off work, but then he had to go back.

“We need the income,” he explained. “Especially now with the medical bills.”

I didn’t know what medical bills he meant. I thought our insurance covered everything, but I was too tired to ask, too tired to think about anything except feeding David, changing David, getting David to sleep.

My mother called during that first week.

“How are you holding up, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine,” I lied, because Robert was in the room and he didn’t like when I worried my parents,.

“Do you need me to come help? I could stay for a few days.”

“We’re managing fine,” Robert said, taking the phone from my hand. “Thanks for calling, Barbara. Margaret needs to rest now.”

He hung up.

“I could have used the help,” I said quietly.

“We don’t need charity from your parents,” he replied. “We’re perfectly capable of taking care of our own son.”

Pennies for Formula

By week two, I was falling apart. David wouldn’t latch properly. I was in pain, overwhelmed, crying at random moments. The doctor had said it might be postpartum hormones, that it was normal, that it would pass. I tried to believe him.

My milk dried up completely on day 12.

“It happens, not to worry,” the pediatrician said. “Formula is perfectly fine. Pick up some Similac or Enfamil. He’ll be just fine.”

I had about $20 in my wallet. I knew we had the checkbook somewhere, but Robert usually handled those things. I figured $20 would be enough for a can of formula.

That night I asked Robert for the checkbook.

“I need to get formula tomorrow,” I said,.

“I’ll pick it up on my way home from work,” he said.

“I’d like to get it myself. I need to get out of the house anyway, get some fresh air.”

“You just had a baby. You should be resting.”

“I’ve been resting for 2 weeks. I need to—”

“I’ll handle it, Margaret.”

And that was that. He brought home two cans of formula the next day. I didn’t think much of it at the time; I was grateful, honestly. One less thing to worry about.