He took control of my banking, wanting to know every penny I had and where it went. At first, it seemed practical, like he was just helping me manage things. “I’ll sort the bills, make sure you’re not overspending,” he’d said with a smile.
But it wasn’t about helping. It was about control.
I couldn’t have my own money.
Every purchase had to be justified. Every withdrawal questioned. He watched everything. If I bought something he didn’t approve of, he’d make me feel guilty for it.
“Do you really need that?”
“I thought we were saving.”
“It’s my money too, you know.”
And if he thought I had too much, he’d take cash from my account, moving it to his. No discussion, no warning. Just gone.
It didn’t matter if I needed it. Didn’t matter if I had plans for it. If he decided I had more than I should, it was his to take.
I dreamed of using that money to break free.
I’d lie awake at night, running the numbers in my head, calculating how much I’d need to disappear, to start over. I imagined buying a train ticket, renting a cheap room somewhere far away. Somewhere he wouldn’t find me.
But there was no hiding it from him.
Every time I thought I had enough, he’d take it away.
It was like he knew.
Like he could sense when I was getting close.
And just like that, my chance would vanish.
Every time, I told myself I’d start again. I’d save more, be smarter, find a way to slip through the cracks of his control.
But deep down, I wondered if I ever really could.
