My Husband And His Stepmother Called Me Their “cash Cow” While Sleeping Together. Then He Trapped Me In A Cave To Die For My Money. How Do I Make Sure They Never See Daylight Again?
The Print Shop
I saved the image file to a USB drive then grabbed my car keys and a light jacket. It was nearly 10 p.m., but I couldn’t wait. I had to act now. I needed something tangible, something big enough, heavy enough to throw in the face of their entire family’s hypocrisy.
I knew a 24/7 digital print shop near the university I’d graduated from. I would go there. Driving through the familiar streets of Boston at night, my heart was empty. The yellow street lights streaked like blurry tears.
I remembered weekend nights on these same roads. Kevin would drive me around, hold my hand, and tell me pointless stories from the university. Then suddenly turn and say,
“I feel so at peace with you by my side, Anna. Peace.”
The word sounded like a bitter joke now. His peace was built on deceiving me, on that sick, incestuous relationship. I once thought he was my entire world, my safe harbor from every storm. It turned out he was the biggest, most devastating storm of my life.
A single hot tear escaped and rolled down my cheek, but I quickly wiped it away. No more crying. From this moment on, tears were a useless luxury.
The print shop was still brightly lit. A young student, looking barely out of his teens, was dozing behind the counter. Seeing me enter, he rubbed his eyes and yawned.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
he asked.
I didn’t say much, just handed him the USB drive.
“Print the only file on this for me. Print it on the largest canvas size you have, on the best quality material.”
The student nodded and plugged the drive into his computer. When the image appeared on his monitor, I saw the shock on his face. His eyes widened, his mouth fell slightly open, and he quickly glanced at me with a mixture of curiosity and pity.
“Ma’am, are you sure you want to print this? The largest size is 4 by 6 ft,”
he stammered.
“I’m sure,”
I replied, my voice as cold as ice, devoid of emotion.
“Just print it. Money is not an issue.”
My words seemed to carry an invisible weight, and the student dared not ask anything further. He silently worked at the computer, and then the large format printer began to run its steady dry hum, like the countdown of a time bomb.
While I waited, I sat on a plastic chair and looked out at the street. The traffic had thinned, leaving only the street lights and the silence of the night.
They called me the cash cow. That’s right. I had earned my money with my own labor, with my intellect, and now I would use that very money to buy back my dignity. The price of this canvas might be high, but compared to the seven years of my youth and the trust they had crushed, it was nothing.
About half an hour later, the student called me over. The canvas was printed, rolled up carefully in a hard cardboard tube. He handed it to me, not daring to look me in the eye, and mumbled,
“Here you go, ma’am.”
I paid him and took the roll. It was heavier than I expected. The weight of betrayal, of the naked truth, and of the revenge I was about to execute.
The Financial Betrayal
I placed it carefully on the passenger seat where Kevin usually sat. Tonight, my companion on the drive home was not him, but the most damning indictment of his and his stepmother’s sins. I drove home no longer feeling pain or panic, only a steely resolve boiling in my veins.
They had pushed me to the edge; they shouldn’t blame me for being cruel. I wouldn’t just hang this picture. I would turn his mother’s memorial, that sacred family gathering, into a stage—a stage where all their masks of false morality would be torn to shreds.
I arrived home when the clock had struck well past midnight. The house was still dark and silent. Kevin wasn’t back yet. I wasn’t surprised. Perhaps his urgent meeting was still ongoing, or perhaps he was somewhere else, in the arms of that other woman—the woman he called mother.
I quietly carried the canvas roll into my office and carefully tucked it away in a hidden corner behind a bookshelf. I didn’t want Kevin to see it before the play began. A surprise gift must be kept secret until the very last moment.
Then I sat down at my desk, not to cry or wallow in self-pity, but to begin the second phase of my plan. If that canvas was the atomic bomb, then what I was about to do was plant landmines all around the battlefield, ensuring that when they detonated, the enemy would have no escape route.
I opened my laptop and logged into our joint bank account. For seven years, nearly all my income from my architectural projects had been deposited here. I had trusted Kevin completely, giving him full control over our finances.
I only knew that each month he sent a portion to support his parents, and the rest was for living expenses and savings. I never asked for specific numbers. I thought, why keep score between husband and wife? That was the biggest mistake of my life.
I began to review the transaction history for the last three years. The numbers danced on the screen, cold and impersonal, yet they told a story—a story of systematic and sophisticated draining of funds.
Regularly, on the 5th of every month, a fixed transfer of $1,000 was made labeled for “Mom.” That was the amount I knew about and had agreed to. But besides that, there were countless other transfers with vague reasons: home repairs, shopping, family matters.
These amounts varied, sometimes a few hundred, sometimes several thousand dollars a month. All told, the money Kevin had secretly transferred to Evelyn over the past three years amounted to nearly $150,000.
$150,000. The blood in my veins began to boil. What had she used my hard-earned money for? To buy the expensive silk dresses and designer handbags she so often flaunted? To fund her trips around the world, after which she would recount her adventures as if they were paid for by her devoted son?
I took a deep breath to quell my anger. Rage wouldn’t solve anything now. I needed proof. Lots of it. I carefully took screenshots of every single one of those transactions, saving them to a separate password-protected folder.
But I wasn’t finished. Something else occurred to me.
About a year ago, Evelyn had hinted at wanting to invest in a piece of land outside the city with a friend. At the time, Kevin had discussed it with me, saying his mother was a little short on funds and asked if we could help. Without hesitation, I agreed, withdrawing $50,000 from my savings account and giving it to him.
He said he would draw up a formal loan agreement, but then he kept putting it off, and I eventually forgot about it. Thinking back now, a sense of unease washed over me.
I opened a new tab and went to the county’s public records website. I vaguely remembered the address of the property Evelyn had mentioned. My hands trembled as I typed in the characters. And then, the information that appeared left me stunned once more.
The property existed, but the owner registered in the system was not Evelyn. It was Kevin Michael Thompson. My husband.
He had used my money, lying that it was a loan for his mother, to secretly buy land and put it in his own name. This was no longer just siphoning money; this was fraud. A meticulously planned conspiracy between mother and son.
I let out a bitter laugh that came from the depths of my soul. The cash cow. Yes. I was not just their unpaid maid; I was their personal gold mine, ready to be exploited at will.
I continued taking screenshots of the property records page. Every line, every number was crystal clear. The pain inside me had now completely transformed into cold, hard fury.
“You treated me like a fool,”
I whispered to the empty room.
“Well, I will show you just how terrifying a fool can be when she finally wakes up.”
