My Husband Called Me A “Money-printing Machine” While Dining With His Mistress. I Canceled His Credit Cards And His Mother’s Life-saving Surgery In One Hour. Was I Too Cruel?

The Anniversary Surprise

We had been married for 10 years when my husband found the love of his life. He said she was a pure soul, that she didn’t care about money.

I turned to my assistant and said,

“Cancel his cards, suspend his medications, change the locks. The love of his life.”

Well, I was going to grant him his wish. I sat in front of my vanity, observing the woman in the mirror. At 35, the corners of my eyes already showed some faint wrinkles. They were the marks of sleepless nights worrying about the company’s accounting, my mother-in-law’s illness, and my husband’s endless research projects.

Today, I chose a plum-colored silk dress, a deep yet powerful color like my current position in the family and in the business world. Today was my 10th wedding anniversary with Ethan. People often say a wife’s devotion never goes unrewarded. I had clung to that phrase for a whole decade.

From being the pampered daughter of a well-off family, I agreed to marry Ethan, a poor university professor with a heavy family burden. Back then, my parents were vehemently opposed. My mother told me that marrying a poor man wasn’t the problem; the problem was marrying into a family that didn’t know how to value anything.

I was young then. I believed in love, in kindness, and in Ethan’s intellect, so I turned a deaf ear to everything. I used all my inheritance and business acumen to build the empire we have today, while simultaneously pulling my husband’s entire family out of the mire of poverty.

I opened a drawer and took out a luxurious red velvet box. Inside was a Patek Philippe watch I had commissioned from Switzerland six months ago. Ethan often complained that his old watch had a worn leather strap and that it didn’t look elegant enough to wear for teaching or meeting with partners.

I remembered every word he said, every frown. To me, Ethan was not just my husband but also the intellectual pride I had always revered. I was a businesswoman with the scent of money ingrained in my skin, so I cherished the scholarly and distinguished air of an academic like him.

Return to Where It Began

The phone rang. It was my assistant’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Mrs. Grant, everything is ready at the pub at Boston University. The chef reports that he has prepared the shepherd’s pie exactly as you requested, with the taste of the old days.”

I smiled and replied,

“Perfect. Thank you, Carla. I’ll be there shortly. Don’t let Ethan know I want it to be a surprise.”

I put the watch in my purse, my heart pounding like in the early days of our love. Instead of the upscale restaurants with candles and dim lights frequented by high society, I decided to celebrate our anniversary right where it all began: the old university pub.

Ten years ago, our wedding reception was held there. We were very poor then, just a few tables with simple food. The bride and groom wore shoes stained with mud because it was pouring rain. But amidst that difficulty and hardship, I would never forget Ethan’s gaze, full of gratitude and promises.

He took my hand and swore in front of our friends,

“Elizabeth, struggle with me now and when I achieve success, I will repay you a thousand times over.”

I engraved that oath in my heart. I didn’t need him to repay me with gold and silver; I just needed his unconditional love.

I drove my luxury car out of the garage of our house. This house in Brooklyn was the sweat and tears of my last 10 years. Every brick, every tree in the garden had been cared for by my own hands.

I thought of Eleanor, my mother-in-law, who had just escaped death thanks to the kidney I had searched for everywhere, spending millions of dollars to secure the operation. I thought of Jessica, my whimsical and spendthrift sister-in-law, who asked me for money every month to buy designer bags and go partying. I protected them not because I had money to spare, but because I loved Ethan. I wanted him to be able to focus on his work without worrying about basic needs.

The streets of Boston were busy at dusk, but my heart felt light. I imagined Ethan’s surprised face when he saw me appear at the old pub. He would surely be very moved; he had always been a nostalgic and sentimental man.

The Betrayal at the Pub

The car moved through familiar streets, taking me back to the old university campus. The old elm trees were still there, silent witnesses to so many generations of students. I parked in a discreet corner, straightened my dress, and applied a little more red lipstick. I wanted to look radiant, to show Ethan that despite the passage of time and financial pressure, his wife still retained her beauty and charm.

I got out of the car, and a gentle evening breeze made my silk skirt ripple. A feeling of nervousness gripped my chest. I hadn’t told Ethan; I just sent him a message saying I had a business dinner tonight and would be late, that he should eat without me. In reality, I had contacted an old janitor I knew, asking him to open the pub at this hour.

With the gift box in my hand, I walked along the moss-covered cobblestone path leading to the pub. In my mind, scenes from our memories replayed. Back then, a $10 plate of shepherd’s pie was the biggest luxury Ethan could afford me. We shared every spoonful of gravy; we gave each other the tenderest pieces of meat.

How could that impoverished past be so beautiful and meaningful? I couldn’t imagine that the place holding the most beautiful memories of my life would today become the tomb of my 10-year marriage.

The pub’s wooden door with its peeling paint was ajar, casting a faint strip of yellow light. I smiled, thinking the janitor had already turned on the light for me. But no, something was wrong. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the familiar black Mercedes parked discreetly behind a hedge of withered hydrangeas. It was the car I had given Ethan last month to celebrate the defense of his doctoral dissertation.

Why was his car here? Did he also remember our anniversary and want to surprise me? The thought comforted me a little. Maybe my husband and I were truly in sync.

I tiptoed closer, planning to startle him like in our mischievous student days. But as I got closer, the intuition of an experienced woman made my steps heavy. There was no music, no atmosphere of a party in preparation. Just a terrifying silence that enveloped everything, broken occasionally by the whistling of the wind through the cracks in the door.

I decided not to enter through the main door. I went around the building to the back entrance; it led to the kitchen. I used to sneak this way to give Ethan extra meal vouchers when he ran out of money at the end of the month.

The rusty kitchen door was ajar. The musty smell of the old whitewashed walls hit my nose, mixed with an unfamiliar perfume fragrance so sweet and piercing it was cloying. And then I heard laughter. It wasn’t the cheerful laughter of a group of friends, but the coquettish giggles of a young woman interspersed with the deep warm voice I had heard for the last 10 years: my husband’s voice.

“You’re terrible. Why did you ask me to meet in this hole-in-the-wall place?”

“It’s safer here, more intimate, sweetheart. Besides, this place holds a lot of memories. I want to create new memories with you. Erase all the old, outdated ones.”

Ethan’s words were like a bucket of ice water thrown directly in my face, a cold that chilled me to the bone. I froze, clutching the red velvet box so tightly that my nails dug into my palm, causing a sharp pain. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the knife wound that had just shattered my heart.

Erase all the old outdated ones. It turned out that my 10 years of youth, 10 years of sacrifice, 10 years of sharing sorrows and joys, were nothing more to him than old things to be erased.