I couldn’t hold back anymore. My voice broke. “Even the small money I earned sewing clothes — you took that too! You said it would go into savings for our family.”
My husband didn’t say a word. That silence — that heavy, painful silence — hurt more than her shouting ever could.
The Truth in the Recordings
That night, while they slept, I sat in the dark and gathered every piece of evidence I had.
Bank transfer receipts. Screenshots of messages where she said, “I’m keeping the money safe.”
And recordings — her own voice saying, “Don’t worry, son. I still have it all.”
I saved everything on a small USB drive and made an official copy of the bank records with seals and signatures.
The next evening, I invited our relatives over for a “welcome dinner.” They came with smiles, unaware of what was about to unfold.
After we ate, I plugged the USB into the television.
One by one, the recordings played.
Her voice filled the room:
“Yes, son, I’m just keeping your money.”
“Send it all to me, don’t worry.”
