“Vera, our family mortgage got approved!” Dima burst through the door, his voice excited, his eyes sparkling as though he’d just stumbled upon a treasure chest. “Six percent per year! Six million rubles!”
I was at the sink, washing off the dinner dishes, my hands moving on autopilot. But the moment I heard his words, I dropped the dish. The crash was loud and sharp, but neither of us flinched. My mind went blank, trying to process what he had just said.
Eight years of marriage, and not once had we discussed a mortgage application. Every time I carefully brought up the subject, Dima would wave it off, saying the same thing:
“Income is too low. They won’t approve it. Let’s wait.”
And now, here he was, talking about a family mortgage with a ridiculously low interest rate and a huge sum of money.
“Where did it come from?” I finally managed to ask, my voice distant, my eyes still staring at the broken plate on the floor.
“Surprise!” Dima swept me up in his arms, spinning me around. “We’re finally going to buy our own apartment!”
But despite his cheerful words, something cold and unsettling settled inside me. What kind of surprise was this? And why now?
Eight years of renting apartments…
We met in 2014. Dima was an electrician for a construction company, and I worked as a consultant at a mobile phone store. Our salaries weren’t anything special—his was around 45 thousand rubles, mine a little over 30. We were just like most people: ordinary, with ordinary incomes. But we had dreams.
We got married in 2015, and a year later, Masha was born. The first few years passed in rented apartments. A one-room for 25 thousand, then a two-room for 35. Every move came with the same promise:
“This is temporary. We’ll save up for our own place.”
And I believed him. Why would my husband hide the truth about his income? Especially on something so important?
Strange details I ignored…
The first thing that should have made me question things was Dima’s calm demeanor about his salary. Colleagues often grumbled about delays in pay or lack of money, but Dima just shrugged it off as if it didn’t bother him.
Second—his expenses didn’t match his supposed income. A new phone for 80 thousand rubles—”on installments.” An expensive winter jacket for 35 thousand—”it was on sale.” Tools for work—”quality stuff costs a lot.” Meanwhile, I bought my clothes on sale, saved on food, and tried to stretch every penny.
Third—he always paid for the rent.
“Don’t worry, I’ll manage,” he’d say. “You spend what you need for Masha.”
And I spent the 40 thousand I earned on groceries, medicine, and other household needs.
It all seemed logical. But then came the mortgage approval.
The moment of truth…
In January 2024, Masha turned eight. According to the family mortgage terms, children had to be under six. So we no longer qualified. I knew that.
But then Dima brought the papers, talking about the six percent interest rate.
“Dima, but Masha is already eight,” I said, struggling to understand. “We don’t qualify for the family mortgage.”
He hesitated, his smile faltering slightly.
“Well… there are other programs. The regular one can also be beneficial.”
A regular mortgage in 2024 had an interest rate of 25–30% per year, and he was talking about six percent. Something didn’t add up.
The investigation…
That night, when Dima fell asleep, I found myself wide awake, the doubt gnawing at me. I couldn’t live in this lie any longer. Not because I was angry or suspicious, but because I needed the truth.
I reached for his phone. I had never done anything like this before, but tonight felt different. I opened the banking app, and as soon as I saw the details of his accounts, I froze.
There it was. A string of transactions I had never seen before. A significant amount of money moving through his accounts, money he had never mentioned. Money that had accumulated over the years. He had been hiding his real income from me, all this time.
I stared at the numbers, my mind racing. Suddenly, everything made sense. The expensive phone, the jackets, the tools—he was living a life I knew nothing about. A life I couldn’t even have imagined.
But why? Why had he hidden it for so long?
The next day, I confronted him. His face turned pale as I showed him the bank statements. For the first time in years, he looked vulnerable, not the confident, calm man I had known.
“Why, Dima?” I asked, my voice shaking. “Why hide this from me? Why make us struggle when we didn’t have to?”
He hesitated, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I wanted to protect you, Vera,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want you to worry. I thought if I kept everything to myself, you wouldn’t have to carry that weight.”
“But you were carrying it alone,” I whispered. “All these years, you were carrying it alone. And so was I.”
Dima nodded, his face strained with regret. “I was afraid. Afraid of what would happen if you knew. Afraid of what you’d think of me.”
For the first time in years, I saw him as a man—flawed, broken, but real. It was a long conversation after that, one filled with raw honesty. I didn’t know if I could ever forgive him, but I finally understood why he did it.
And as the years passed, I learned that the truth, no matter how painful, was the only thing that could set us free.