I’m 38 and have spent the last decade working offshore—three months at sea, a few weeks at home, then back out again. The work is grueling: long hours, unpredictable weather, steel and salt constantly under my skin. But it pays well, around twelve thousand a month, and I convinced myself it was all worth it.
My wife and I have two daughters, Emma, nine, and Lily, six. Every time I leave for the rig, their faces are the last thing I see; every time I return, they’ve grown a little more. After covering the mortgage, bills, college savings, and investments, I sent my wife an extra eight thousand each month—not because she asked, but because I wanted her life to be comfortable. I told her repeatedly:
“Hire a cleaner. Order takeout. Go to the spa. Take time for yourself. I don’t want you struggling while I’m gone.”
I trusted her completely and never questioned her spending.
But over the past year, her requests started increasing. Spa weekends, girls’ trips to Miami—at first I swallowed my unease and said yes, telling myself she deserved a break. Then she called one night from somewhere I couldn’t imagine:
“I’ve been invited on a yacht trip,” she said casually. “Honestly, for all I do while you’re having fun at sea, I think I’ve earned it.”
Fun at sea? I sleep in a metal bunk while machines rattle constantly. Still, I paid, even dipping into savings. I wondered if I wasn’t appreciating her enough.
Three weeks ago, I swapped rotations and returned home early as a surprise. I imagined Emma and Lily running into my arms, my wife smiling at the flowers I brought. Instead, I was met with a smell of rotting garbage, dishes piled high, flies buzzing, and trash stacked like barricades. Empty wine bottles, clothes that weren’t ours, and a city noise complaint sat on the counter. My daughters were nowhere in sight.
Then I heard her voice from the backyard:
“He has no clue. He just sends the money and never asks questions. I told you, this is the life.”
My heart sank. I stepped outside, demanding to know where the girls were. She stammered something about them being “with her mom.” I went straight to my mother-in-law’s house, where my daughters greeted me like nothing had happened—safe, clean, happy.
Later, I confronted my wife. She claimed I abandoned her, that three months alone was too much, and that she needed an outlet. I reminded her I worked to give her and the girls everything. She shot back that I chose this job.
I had chosen it for us—for stability, opportunity, and our daughters’ future.
That night, I cut off the extra money, moved accounts to require both our signatures for large withdrawals, brought the girls home during my off weeks, and arranged a trusted nanny while I’m away.
Now she says I’m overreacting, that it’s just stress. But every time I close my eyes, I hear her backyard words:
“He has no clue.”
I don’t know what hurts more—the money, the lies, or realizing my daughters weren’t living in their own home half the time. Part of me still loves her, but part of me feels like I’ve been funding a life I wasn’t invited into. I’m torn between trying therapy and walking away.