I’m 38 years old, and for the past ten years I’ve worked offshore. Three months at sea, a few weeks home, then back out again. It’s hard, grueling work—long shifts, unpredictable weather, steel and salt and exhaustion—but it pays well. Around $12,000 a month.
I always told myself it was worth it.
My wife and I have two daughters, Emma (9) and Lily (6). Every time I board that helicopter out to the rig, their faces are the last thing I see. Every time I come back, they’re a little taller.
After covering the mortgage, bills, college savings, and investments, I send my wife an extra $8,000 each month. Not because she asked. Because I wanted her to be comfortable. I told her over and over:
“Hire a cleaner. Order takeout. Go to the spa. Take time for yourself. I don’t want you struggling while I’m gone.”
I never questioned a single charge on the account. If she wanted something, she had it. I trusted her completely.
But over the past year, the requests grew.
First it was spa weekends with her friends. Then a girls’ trip to Miami. I swallowed the discomfort and said yes. I told myself she deserved it. Being home alone with two kids wasn’t easy.
Then one night she called me while I was on the rig.
“I’ve been invited on a yacht trip,” she said lightly. “Honestly, for all I do while you’re alone having fun at sea, I think I’ve earned it.”
That one hit differently. Having fun at sea? I sleep in a metal bunk while machinery rattles the walls.
Still, I paid.
I even dipped into savings to make it happen. I felt guilty for hesitating. Maybe I wasn’t appreciating her enough. Maybe I didn’t understand how lonely she was.
Three weeks ago, I managed to swap rotations and fly home early. I wanted to surprise them. I imagined Emma running into my arms. Lily squealing. My wife smiling when she saw the flowers.
I unlocked the front door quietly.
The smell hit me first.
Rotting garbage.
It was thick in the air, sour and stale. Dirty dishes overflowed in the sink. Flies buzzed near the kitchen window. Trash bags were piled against the wall like they’d been sitting there for days. Maybe weeks.
My stomach tightened.
At first I thought something terrible had happened. Maybe she’d gotten sick. Maybe there had been an emergency.
Then I noticed empty wine bottles on the counter. More in the recycling bin. Clothes draped over chairs—some weren’t hers. Definitely not mine.
On the kitchen island sat a city notice: noise complaint. Fine due in ten days.
My daughters were nowhere in sight.
Panic started creeping up my spine.
Then I heard her voice.
From the backyard.
She was laughing.
I stepped closer to the sliding door and froze when I heard her say:
“He has no clue. He just sends the money and never asks questions. I told you, this is the life.”
My ears rang.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I stood there, holding the gifts I’d brought, feeling like the ground had shifted under me.
I stepped outside.
She turned—and the color drained from her face.
“You’re home,” she said weakly.
“Where are the girls?” was the only thing I could get out.
She stammered something about them being “with her mom.” I didn’t argue. I got back in my truck and drove straight to my mother-in-law’s house.
She opened the door, surprised.
“Oh,” she said carefully. “You’re back early.”
“Where are my daughters?”
“In the living room,” she replied. “They’ve been staying here… like usual.”
Like usual.
My heart sank again.
“Like usual?” I repeated.
She hesitated. “Your wife drops them off most weekends. Sometimes during the week if she’s busy.”
Busy.
I walked into the living room and my girls ran to me. That part nearly broke me entirely. They smelled like lavender laundry detergent and safety. Emma told me about a math test. Lily showed me a drawing she made.
Neither of them mentioned missing home.
That scared me more than anything.
When I returned to the house later that evening, I confronted my wife. Calmly at first.
“How long have the girls been staying with your mom?”
She burst into tears. Said I abandoned her. Said three months alone was too much. Said she needed an outlet. Said I didn’t understand the pressure she was under.
“I’m working to give you everything,” I said quietly.
“And I never asked you to,” she snapped back. “You chose this job.”
That cut deep.
I chose this job for us.
For stability. For opportunity. For our daughters’ future.
I cut off the extra money that night. Transferred our accounts into one that requires both signatures for large withdrawals. I moved the girls back home with me during my off weeks and arranged for a trusted nanny when I return offshore.
Now my wife says I’m overreacting. That it was “just stress.” That I’m punishing her.
But every time I close my eyes, I hear her voice in the backyard:
“He has no clue.”
I don’t know what hurts more—the money, the lies, or realizing my daughters weren’t even living in their own home half the time.
I’m torn between trying therapy and walking away.
Part of me still loves her.
Another part feels like I’ve been funding a life I was never invited into.
I don’t know what to think anymore.
