Page 20 of Dear Debbie

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FROM DEAR DEBBIE DRAFTS FILE

Dear Debbie,

I have been married for over 20 years now, and although in many ways it is a happy marriage, there are certain aspects that I am unhappy with. I’m hoping you could give me some advice.

When we first got married, my husband was adamant that he didn’t want me to work. I thought this was very sweet, and when my children were young, it made sense. I loved how he provided for us. But it could also be frustrating. For example, he set up our credit card so that he had to approve every purchase. When I wanted to buy something, I would have to call him about it and get his verbal approval beforehand, or else the card would be declined.

Similarly, we only have one joint bank account, and it only has a small amount of money that is my “allowance.” Since I am the one who buys groceries, most of the money must be spent on that, and if I want any other purchases, I have to ask him to add money to the account. He insists that I “save” the money from my tiny allowance, so if my shoes wear out and I need a new pair, I have to save for months to buy them.

He feels that I’m not responsible with my spending, and he has a point. I’m not the one earning the money. For that reason, now that our children are older, I suggested the possibility of getting a job so I could have my own money. I thought this was the perfect solution, but when I mentioned it, he became furious and said that if I got a job, it would mean that I don’t trust him to support me.

I am just frustrated because even though we are well off, I have been living on a shoestring budget for my entire marriage. How can I convince my husband to let me work and become more financially independent?

Rich But Broke

Dear Rich But Broke,

What you are describing is financial abuse. Your husband is using money as a way to control you and he deserves to suffer. You don’t need his permission to get a job. You don’t need his permission for anything! My advice is that you should slip poison into his wine at dinner speak to a divorce lawyer.

I’d be happy to give you more information on poisons that are unlikely to be detected on autopsy local legal options if you’d like to contact me through my email address on the website.

Debbie

15

DEBBIE

It’s a few minutes before two o’clock when I pull into the parking lot for the Hingham Household newspaper.

The office is in a small strip mall next to a Chinese restaurant and below a massage parlor. I didn’t eat that much at Rochelle’s house, because I was avoiding the sandwiches, and I have to admit that Chinese food and a massage sounds pretty good right about now. Maybe I’ll make a stop after Garrett and I talk about whatever was so important that it couldn’t be done over the phone.

The words Hingham Household are etched in black lettering on the glass door, although a few of the letters have rubbed off so that it reads Hin ham Househo. I turn the knob and enter the small space, walking past the few scattered desks leading to the lone office occupied by Garrett Meers. I had always imagined that the offices of a newspaper would be big and bustling, but this place is the opposite of that. It’s small and carpeted and usually so silent, you can hear a pin drop. It smells vaguely of cigarettes, which is strange since I don’t think anyone who works here smokes.

The only one who is here today is Garrett’s secretary, Sierra. She’s so gorgeous that it’s not surprising that I’ve seen Garrett checking her out when he thinks nobody is looking. Sierra looks up briefly when I enter the office, but she doesn’t say a word and even avoids eye contact. I find that odd, because usually that girl can’t shut up.

And something else about the office sets off an alarm bell in the back of my head:

Bernice isn’t here.

Bernice is a senior editor at the paper, and even though Garrett is the editor in chief, Bernice makes all the important decisions. I generally submit my column directly to her, and I’m not convinced Garrett even reads it.

It wouldn’t be strange for Bernice not to be in the office, because I’m sure the last thing she wants is to sit at that creaky wooden desk all day. However, the emptiness of her desk is what strikes me as a red flag. There are usually stacks of paper on her desk, a nameplate, and a photo of her daughter grinning at a state fair. All that has vanished.

“Hi, Sierra,” I say. “I’m here to see—”

“Go on in,” Sierra tells me, since she has obviously been expecting me. It’s yet another slightly disturbing red flag.

I knock on the door to Garrett’s office, even though it’s slightly ajar. He calls for me to come in, and I slip into his broom closet of an office. Garrett is in his early forties, maybe a year or two younger than I am, and he’s always clean-shaven and well dressed. He likes to project the image of the paper being more important than it is. After all, who is he dressing for when we are the only ones here?

“Hi, Debbie.” He tries to smile, but only the left side of his lips turns up. “Have a seat. Please.”

I oblige, taking the seat in front of his desk, smoothing my dress so that the hem stretches over my knees. I can’t push away the sinking feeling in my chest. “Is everything okay? Where is Bernice?”

Garrett opens his mouth, but instead of answering that question, he just shakes his head. “I need to talk to you about a column you did a little while ago.”

“Okay…”