Chapter 3: The Missing Money

Meanwhile, my mom never brought up having a third child again. That was odd. With her stubbornness, once she fixated on something, nothing could stop her. Now she was quiet, taking senior-center classes with Roger or just staying home.

It was strange, almost unsettling. She threw herself into yoga at the rec center, tried watercolor painting, even took a few online classes. Sometimes I’d see her and Roger out walking the dog, laughing at something I couldn’t hear. It was like she’d turned a page I hadn’t expected.

I couldn’t figure it out, but I was so busy running between school and the hospital, I didn’t have time to worry about her.

My days blurred together—lesson plans, hospital visits, late-night grading at the kitchen table. Every so often, I’d think about Mom, but there was always something more urgent to handle.

Just as I was puzzling over it, my phone chimed with a text, breaking the silence.

I jumped, startled out of my thoughts. It was late, the house quiet except for the hum of the fridge. I reached for my phone, heart pounding.

It was my old friend again. “Remember to bring your wife for an ultrasound tomorrow.”

“There are some pre-op tests, too. I’ve booked a specialist. Surgery’s set for the day after tomorrow.”

“Fees are due tomorrow. If you need help, just let me know.”

His words were kind, but they carried the weight of reality. I could feel the pressure mounting, every dollar accounted for, every hope riding on a number.

His words warmed me. My fingers trembled as I replied, “It’s okay. I’ll find a way.”

I typed the words, forcing myself to sound confident. But deep down, I was scared. I didn’t want to ask for help, not unless I had no other choice.

Putting down my phone, I let out a long sigh. Being a teacher looks good on paper, but the pay is low. My wife and I bring home about three thousand a month. Her family isn’t well-off either. We scrimped and saved, hoping to buy a place of our own.

Some nights we’d sit at the kitchen table, poring over spreadsheets, trying to make the numbers work. The dream of a little house with a backyard felt further away every month. Still, we kept hoping, kept saving every spare penny.

But things didn’t go as planned. IVF wiped out years of savings and left us with a huge hole to fill.

I watched our bank balance dwindle, each bill a fresh reminder of what we were up against. The stress weighed on us, but we clung to each other, determined not to give up.

I was incredibly grateful that my dad had set aside money for my wedding before he died, so I wasn’t completely desperate.

Sometimes I’d sit in the dark, thinking about Dad. He always planned ahead, always tried to protect us. That money was his last gift to me—a safety net when I needed it most.

The next day, I took leave and brought my wife to the hospital. For the past two weeks, I’d been on edge, glued to my phone when I wasn’t teaching, waiting for news from the hospital. Every missed call made my heart jump.

I held my wife’s hand in the waiting room, trying to hide my nerves. The chairs were uncomfortable, the air smelled faintly of antiseptic. Every time my phone buzzed, I felt a jolt of fear and hope.

This was our second time reaching the IVF stage. The first time, only one embryo succeeded, and considering the odds, my wife had to go through another round of painful egg retrieval.

I remembered her tears after the first round, the bruises on her arms, the way she tried to smile through the pain. She was so strong, stronger than I’d ever been.

Now, we finally saw hope. My wife and I were both excited, the anxiety easing a little.

We squeezed each other’s hands, whispering plans for the future. It felt good to hope again, even if it was just for a moment.

With my friend’s help, my wife quickly finished her ultrasound. The results came back, and her hysteroscopy and fibroid removal were scheduled soon after.

My friend walked us through every step, explaining the procedures, answering our questions. I was grateful for his patience and kindness.

My wife was taken for anesthesia, and my friend led me to his office, handing me a bill for an eighty-thousand-dollar deposit.

He handed me the paperwork, his expression gentle. “Take your time,” he said. “If you need anything, just ask.”

He reassured me, “Don’t worry. The surgery is low-risk, and the doctor is very experienced. There won’t be any problems.”

He gave me a reassuring smile, but I could see the concern in his eyes. I nodded, trying to believe him.

I nodded, opened my phone, and went to pay the bill, tapping in my password.

My hands were sweaty, my heart pounding. I double-checked the account number, praying everything would go smoothly.

The next second, a message popped up:

[Your account has insufficient funds. Please select another payment method.]

The words stared back at me, cold and final. I felt my stomach drop, panic rising in my chest.

How could that be? Did I select the wrong card?

I fumbled with my phone, switching between accounts, hoping it was just a glitch. My fingers shook as I tried again.

I tried again, but got the same message.

Each failed attempt made the panic worse. My mouth went dry. I could feel the receptionist’s eyes on me, waiting.

My heart started pounding, a sense of dread rising in me.

I wiped my palms on my jeans, trying to steady my breathing. The room felt suddenly too small, the air too thick.

I quickly opened my banking app to see what was going on.

My thumb hovered over the screen, afraid of what I’d find. I braced myself for the worst.

On the home screen, the balance made me freeze—my chest felt like it was being crushed.

The number stared back at me, unforgiving. My vision swam, my breath caught in my throat.

Of the eighty thousand I’d saved, only twenty thousand was left. The other sixty thousand was gone.

I did the math over and over, hoping I’d made a mistake. But the numbers didn’t change. Sixty thousand. Gone.

I stared at the number, unable to believe my eyes.

It felt like a nightmare. I blinked, hoping the screen would reset, but the balance stayed the same. I wanted to scream, to throw my phone across the room.

No way. This couldn’t be happening.

I shook my head, whispering, “No, no, no.” My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I felt like I was drowning.

Since Dad passed, I’d guarded that account carefully, kept the paperwork locked in a drawer, not even showing it to my wife. I’d hoped it would be there when we needed it most.

I remembered every time I’d checked the balance, every time I’d told myself, “Just a little longer. We’re almost there.” It was supposed to be our safety net, our hope.

But now, how could so much money just vanish?

I couldn’t wrap my head around it. It was like someone had reached into my future and torn it away.

That money was our only hope of having a child.

I felt the loss in my bones. It wasn’t just money—it was every dream we’d ever had, every late-night promise.

Transaction history—yes, I could check the records.

I scrambled to open the transaction log, my breath coming in short gasps. I needed answers, needed to know where it all went.

With shaking hands, I opened the details.

My finger hovered over the screen, dreading what I’d find. My heart hammered in my chest.

There was only one transaction in the past year: sixty thousand, withdrawn at a bank branch two weeks ago.

The date burned into my mind. Two weeks ago. I racked my brain, trying to remember where I’d been, what I’d done. The answer was right there, just out of reach.

My first thought was that I’d been scammed. But when I looked at the recipient’s account name…

I felt like I’d fallen into an ice pit, cold from head to toe, barely able to stand.

The name on the transaction was one I knew too well. I gripped the edge of the desk, fighting to stay upright. My world tilted, everything I thought I could count on crumbling beneath me.

I didn’t want to believe the name on the screen.