My Cheapskate Husband Gave His Mother and His Ex a $10K Beach Vacation, but He Had No Idea What I’d Do Next — Story of the Day

My husband never said we were broke. He just acted like I wasn’t worth spending on, until I found a $10K receipt for a beach trip he booked for his mom and his ex.

I usually don’t count how many times I sigh during the day. But that evening, I was already at number five, and it was only 6 p.m.

The kitchen smelled like dry-erase marker. I’d just finished grading 28 notebooks, each one filled with spelling errors and my red-ink frustration.

On the table, a glowing notification: overdue utility bill.

The soup was bubbling, the kettle was screaming, and from the living room, Steve’s voice floated in:

“Babe, look! The new Tesla! Zero to sixty in 3.1 seconds! It’s not a car — it’s a missile!”

I didn’t even flinch. Just stared at the screen and asked, “Are we even gonna have power to boil water tomorrow? They’re threatening to shut it off.”

Steve didn’t move a muscle. He was sprawled in the armchair.

“Just pay it. You handle that stuff anyway.”

I paid it. Again. Just like I paid for the water. And the new washing machine. And the smart TV he was watching his car reviews on.

I was about to grab my old pajamas from the closet when something fell from the pocket of Steve’s coat. A paper receipt.

Rare these days, right?

I bent down and picked it up.

$10,234. Luxury Seaside Resort. 2 guests. 14 nights.

I stood frozen while my husband — my gold-medal-level cheapskate of a husband — crunched popcorn and mumbled about torque and acceleration.

“Steve?”

I walked toward him.

“Hm?”

“What’s this?”

I held the receipt like a murder weapon.

“Oh, that. A trip. For Mom. And… her friend. A gift. She’s never been to the sea.”

I waited for a punchline. Or a wink. But he just reached for the remote.

“She’s turning seventy. I thought she deserved something nice.”

“You didn’t even buy me flowers on my birthday. Said they’d wilt.”

“They do. And Mom — she deserves this. You know what she went through raising me alone.”

“And I? I’ve been raising this marriage alone for two years now. Paying the bills. The internet. Your phone — because your ‘plan is outdated’!”

Steve shrugged.

“You’re strong, El. You handle everything. But Mom… she’s fragile.”

I wasn’t listening anymore. My brain was playing the same three words on loop.

Two guests. Luxury. Ten thousand.

Mom and... which “friend”?

I walked into the bathroom. But I didn’t cry. I just sat on the edge of the tub, staring at the white tile.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to argue. I wanted the truth. Every last detail.

Right down to the cocktail umbrella.

***

I wasn’t even looking for anything. Honestly.

That day, I just wanted to check if the camp had replied to my message — the one where I begged them for more scholarship spots.

The school had only managed to fund three places. For a class of twenty-two. And they expected me to choose who got to go.

How do you pick between a boy who shares one pair of shoes with his brother and a girl who brings crackers for lunch because it’s all her grandma can afford?

So I wrote letters. Made calls. Tagged random camp sponsors like some desperate online troll.

Nothing. Just more polite no’s and the usual:

“We hope to partner in the future.”

Sure. Maybe next summer I’ll choose my three least hungry kids.

And right as I was about to breathe for the first time that day, Mrs. Klein waltzed into the teachers' lounge, holding her forehead like she was Lady Macbeth.

“El, I need you to cover my class during reading. Emergency migraine... and a dinner date.”

“With your nail tech?”

But I said yes. Because, unlike her, I actually cared whether our kids could read. So no, I wasn’t scrolling for drama.

But the universe? Oh, it loves irony.

I logged into Facebook, hoping maybe the camp had messaged me back. I clicked through the notifications, then the “Mentions” tab.

And that’s when I saw it.

A familiar name. A too-familiar face.

Lora. My husband’s ex.

The woman with the surgically perfect smile and nails sharp enough to slice through drywall. Her story was glowing at the top of the screen like a neon sign from hell.

I tapped it. Just once. That was enough.

Two sunbeds. One umbrella.

My MIL dancing on the seaside, looking like the happiest woman in the world. Next to her — Lora. Hair down, skin glowing. Both in white outfits. Couple look.

The caption?

“Girls trip with my almost mother-in-law 💙🌴 #blessed #familygoals”

I blinked. Replayed it. Maybe it was a look-alike. Maybe my eyes were tired.

Next slide.

Clink.

They are sitting on the beach. Picnic."Thank you, Steve 💋"written below.

And that’s when my stomach did that slow, sinking thing.

I didn’t even realize I’d stood up until my chair screeched back. My colleague Amy looked up from her papers.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lied. “Just... need some air.”

I walked into the hallway, phone still in hand. I watched the story again. And again.

Maybe Steve didn’t know? Maybe his mom invited Lora?

No! No, he knew.

And worst of all, he chose her to share that ridiculous luxury vacation. The same man who said my hair appointments were “optional expenses.”

My knees were shaking. Not from betrayal, but from rage. All those years, I thought I was too emotional. Too dramatic.

Guess what, Steve? You haven’t even met drama yet.

***

I didn’t go looking for more proof. Not really. But that evening, my brain just wouldn’t shut up.

Maybe you misunderstood. Maybe it’s not what it looks like.

And then I heard the shower.

Running. Door locked. Steve’s phone was in there with him.

He never took his phone into the shower.

“Come on,” I muttered. “You really lock the door now like a teenager hiding snacks?”

My feet moved before I fully decided to follow them. I walked into the bedroom. His laptop sat on the desk, unlocked — like it was flirting with me.

I froze.

Don’t. This is wrong. You’re not that woman. You don’t spy. You’re better than this.

...Right?

“Please,” I whispered, “just show me I’m not crazy.”

And then I opened it.

Messages. MOM.

“The weather is divine. Lora’s already tanned and glowing. We’re being treated like queens. Can’t believe you pulled this off.

But seriously, how long are you going to keep pretending with that woman? She drags you down. You deserve more. We miss you. XOXO”

Oh, God...

Steve replied:

“My two favorite girls. Enjoy every second. I’ll be there soon.”

That was it. He didn’t even bother to hide the betrayal.

And that stunned me. The ease of it. The entitlement. Like I was just… wallpaper. Background noise. A subscription he forgot to cancel.

I stared at the words.

My two favorite girls.

I could yell. Throw something. Demand apologies I’d never believe.

But for what? What’s the point of confronting someone who’s already erased you from the picture?

Steve’s motivations were crystal clear.

I’d spent years fighting for crumbs. For consideration. For space. And there he was — writing love notes to his mother and his ex.

So no, I didn’t scream. I smiled.

If he only knew how to spend ten grand on exes… Then maybe it was time I gave him exactly what he wanted.

An ex.

And finally, maybe I’d enjoy the perks too.

***

In the rearview mirror, I caught glimpses of twenty-two laughing faces pressed up against the glass, sticky with juice boxes and excitement. My entire class.

Every single one of them.

No one left behind this time.

I paid for it all: the bus, the camp, the sleeping bags, the matching T-shirts that said:

“Team Room 12 – We Did It!”

Turns out, ten thousand dollars goes a long way when you spend it on something real. There was even enough left over for a divorce lawyer.

I’d taken care of everything.

The night before a trip, I changed the locks. Installed a new security system. Set up motion alerts.

Steve had gone to work thinking he’d come back to the same house, the same life, the same woman who paid his bills while he wrote poetry to his mother and his ex.

Poor thing.

He didn’t know his wardrobe was neatly packed and stacked in color-coded garbage bags on the front porch.

His golf clubs? Leaning against the railing like two rejected exes. Even his fancy electric toothbrush was waiting for him by the welcome mat.

And right above it all, taped to the front door, was my final note.

"Dear Steve,

Hope you'll enjoy life with your favorite girls.

Don’t forget sunscreen —don’t want you to burn before the hearing.

See you in court. XOXO"

I didn’t wait around to see his reaction. Didn’t need to.

Because as the trees parted and the kids squealed at the first glimpse of the lake, I felt peace settle in my chest. I did the right thing. For my kids. And finally, for me.

“Miss El! Is this the camp with the zip line?!”

“Yup! And the ice cream machine.”

The van exploded with cheers. I pressed the gas just a little harder, the wind tangled in my hair.

And for the first time in a long, long while, I wasn’t the one left behind.

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