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 Request for Money
But then it was week three, and we were running low on formula again, and David had developed a diaper rash that needed ointment. I still felt like I was trapped in the house, trapped in this fog of exhaustion and isolation.
“I’m going to run to the pharmacy,” I told Robert. “Get formula and some diaper cream. Maybe stop by the bank, get some cash.”
Something flickered across his face.
“The bank?”
“I’m running low on cash. I just need to grab some from our account.”
“I’ll give you cash. How much do you need?”
“I can just go to the bank, Robert. It’s not a big deal.”
“How much do you need?” His voice had an edge to it now,.
“Maybe $50? For formula and diapers.”
He pulled out his wallet and handed me two twenties.
“That should be enough.”
It wasn’t enough. Formula was expensive, and I wanted to pick up a few other things while I was out, but the way he was looking at me made me not want to argue.
“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”
Humiliation at the Register
I went to the pharmacy where I worked. My colleague Susan was behind the counter.
“Margaret! It’s so good to see you. How’s the baby?”
We chatted for a few minutes. I gathered the formula, the diaper cream, some witch hazel pads for myself. When I got to the register, the total came to $46 and change. I handed over the two twenties.
“You’re a little short,” Susan said apologetically.
I felt my face flush. Oh, I thought, let me check if I have more. I didn’t. I’d used the $20 in my wallet the day before for stamps and milk.
“Tell you what,” Susan said, “I’ll cover it. You can pay me back next week.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Margaret, it’s fine, really.”
I wanted to cry right there in the pharmacy where I’d worked for 3 years. I was a grown woman, a professional, and I couldn’t afford to buy formula for my own baby.
“I’ll just put back the witch hazel pads,” I said quietly.
A Closed Door
When I got home, Robert was in his study, door closed. I could hear him on the phone laughing about something. I put the formula away, changed David’s diaper, and nursed my embarrassment and confusion.
That night, after David finally fell asleep, I brought it up.
“Robert, I need access to our checking account. I should have the checkbook or at least a debit card.”
“You have a debit card.”
“I can’t find it. And I need to know what our balance is so I can budget properly.”
“I told you, I handled the finances.”
“But I need to be able to buy things for David without having to ask you for money every time.”
“What’s the problem, Margaret? Did I not give you enough today?”
“That’s not the point. Because if you need more, all you have to do is ask.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask to access my own money.”
David started crying in the other room. Robert’s jaw tightened.
“See what you did? You woke the baby.”
I went to comfort David, my hands shaking with frustration and something else, something I couldn’t quite name yet—fear maybe,.
The Truth at the Bank
The next morning, I made a decision. I would go to the bank myself. I had every right to know what was in our joint account. I could deposit my own paychecks there, after all—well, I had before I went on maternity leave.
I bundled David into his car seat and drove to First National Bank on Webb Road, the same bank where Robert and I had opened our joint account 3 years ago. I walked up to the counter with David in his carrier. A woman I didn’t recognize smiled at me.
“How can I help you?”
“I need to check the balance on my account, please. And I’d like to withdraw $100.”
“Certainly. Do you have your ID and account number?”
I fumbled in my purse for my driver’s license and the account number I’d memorized years ago. She typed for a moment, then looked at the screen. Her smile faltered just slightly.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Patterson. This account shows a balance of $12.37.”
My stomach dropped.
“That can’t be right. Let me double check.”
More typing.
“No, that’s correct. $12.37.”
“But my husband… We both get paid. Where did it all go?”
She looked uncomfortable.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss specific transactions without…”
“It’s my account!”
My voice came out louder than I intended. David stirred in his carrier. I took a breath, lowered my voice.
“I’m sorry. I’m on the account. I should be able to see where the money went.”
“Of course. Just a moment.”
She printed out a statement and slid it across the counter. I stared at it. Withdrawals, dozens of them. 500 here, 700 there, 2,000, 1,500. All in the last 6 weeks. All while I was pregnant and then recovering from childbirth.
“Where… What is this?”
The teller leaned closer, her voice dropping.
“Mrs. Patterson, is everything all right at home?”
“I don’t… I need to see the manager, please.”
She hesitated then nodded.
“Let me get Mrs. Hartley.”
