My husband worked nonstop for 9 years. We moved for my job, but he resigned from his. When I brought up about his job, he assured me that he’s looking for one. A few days ago, when I got home early, I saw his laptop open, and was shocked when I saw that.

It wasn’t a resume or a job posting or even a draft of a cover letter. It was a spreadsheet—one he had clearly made himself. The title on the tab said: “Donations – Past 24 Months.” My heart started racing. I scrolled down and saw thousands of dollars, gone in small chunks. $100 here, $250 there. All to different GoFundMes, mutual aid accounts, even anonymous crypto donations. It wasn’t gambling. It wasn’t shopping.

He was… giving money away.

I remember saying his name out loud, like he was in the room. “Nasir?” I whispered it like a question, even though I was alone. For a second, I thought—maybe this is for a tax write-off? Maybe we’re part of some kind of charity thing he didn’t tell me about? But then I saw the notes. Next to each line was a little comment.

“Saw her story on Reddit. Reminded me of Mom.”
“This kid just wanted glasses. $150 well spent.”
“Dad with 3 jobs, still behind on rent. I had to.”

I sat on the edge of the couch, my knees numb. Nasir had told me he was job hunting. Every time I asked, he’d say, “I’ve got a few things in the pipeline,” or “This market’s weird, but I’m talking to people.”

I was covering both of us on a nonprofit salary. We weren’t rich. We were okay, but only because I budgeted every damn dollar. We had goals. A house someday. A trip to Morocco like we always said. Kids maybe. But instead of saving or even just easing our shared burden, he was… playing secret angel to strangers online.

That night, I didn’t say anything. I made dinner like usual. Lentils and rice, with leftover roasted carrots. We watched something forgettable on TV. But my stomach was twisting, the whole time. I felt lied to, even though technically he hadn’t stolen anything.

The next morning, I woke up early. I couldn’t sleep. I waited until Nasir made his coffee and sat down at the kitchen table with that same laptop. I stood there, arms crossed, and said, “Can I ask you something?”

He blinked up at me. “Sure.”

I pointed at the screen. “What’s with the donations?”

He froze. His hand hovered mid-sip. He didn’t deny it. Just lowered the mug and exhaled like a balloon deflating. “You saw that.”

“I did. And I have so many questions, I don’t even know where to start. You told me you were looking for work.”

“I am,” he said quickly. Then, softer, “I was.”

I pulled out the chair across from him. “So why have you been giving away money? We don’t have much, Nasir.”

His face crumpled a little. Not crying, but like something inside was breaking open. “I know. I know we don’t. But I had some of my severance left. And I thought… I don’t know. I thought I could do something.”

“Something for strangers?”

“No. Something good.” He looked up at me. “Every day I’d scroll job sites and feel like a failure. I wasn’t hearing back. I wasn’t even getting interviews. And then I’d go online and see these stories—people who had nothing. A mom trying to pay for insulin. A teacher buying backpacks for her whole class. And I thought—I can’t fix myself right now. But maybe I can help someone else.”

I wanted to scream. But I also kind of wanted to cry.

Instead, I just said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d be upset.”

“That’s not a reason. That’s cowardice.”

He nodded. Took it. Didn’t argue. Just sat there, lips pressed tight.

We didn’t speak much for the rest of the day. I needed space. I walked around the lake by our apartment. Twice. I called my older sister, Tahlia, just to vent. She’s always been the logical one. She listened, then said, “So let me get this straight—he lied about job hunting and he’s been quietly giving away money you both need?”

“Exactly.”

She made a tsk sound. “That’s not generosity. That’s emotional avoidance dressed up as virtue. He needs therapy, not a GoFundMe account.”

That stung because I could feel how true it was.

When I got home, Nasir had made dinner. Mushroom curry, which he knew I liked. We ate quietly, like strangers. Halfway through, he said, “I want to fix this. I’ll get a job. Any job. Just something to contribute again.”

I nodded, but I didn’t answer.

Over the next few weeks, he followed through. Applied to everything from admin work to retail. He got hired part-time at a small bookstore downtown. It wasn’t much money, but it was something. More importantly, he started going to therapy, using a sliding scale clinic a friend had told him about.

He came home one evening, two months later, looking lighter than I’d seen him in a long time. He said, “My therapist said I have ‘helper syndrome.’ I get high off the idea of being needed. Makes me feel useful.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Even if it drains you—or someone else?”

He nodded. “That’s the part I’m working on.”

Around that same time, my boss asked me to lead a project involving micro-grants for community support. I spent hours reading stories, vetting applications, distributing small amounts of money to people who needed it most. I couldn’t help but think—this is what Nasir was trying to do. Just… in a messier way.

Eventually, he told me about some of the people he’d helped. A teenager who needed bus fare to commute to school. A woman whose abusive ex had stolen her rent money.

“I didn’t always vet them,” he admitted. “Some were probably fake. But I hoped they weren’t.”

I asked, “Do you still want to help people?”

“Always,” he said.

So I pitched something to my organization. A “pay-it-forward” volunteer branch, focused on kindness interventions—small, targeted acts of help that didn’t require a massive budget.

I asked Nasir if he’d want to run it.

He blinked at me. “Seriously?”

“You care. You’ve got experience—granted, chaotic experience. But you understand people. And if you want redemption, this is it.”

He said yes.

We built it slowly. He worked part-time at the bookstore while helping me design the pilot. He reached out to some of the very people he’d donated to, invited them to share their experiences, even anonymously, for insight.

One of them, a single dad named Arturo, ended up joining the program later on. Another, a young woman who’d almost dropped out of nursing school, sent a thank-you letter with photos of her in scrubs. Nasir cried when he read it.

The money he’d given away? It didn’t come back. But something else did—dignity.

We’re in a better place now. Not rich. Not flashy. But we’re building something real. Together.

A few months ago, we took that Morocco trip. Cheap flights, budget hostels, street food every night. It was perfect. We visited a library in Fez, and Nasir ran his hand along the dusty old spines, grinning like a kid.

“I used to think purpose was tied to a paycheck,” he said. “Turns out, it’s tied to people.”

I squeezed his hand. “And honesty.”

That, too.

Looking back, I still feel a pang when I remember opening that laptop. The betrayal. The worry. But I also know this—sometimes people do the wrong thing for reasons that are heartbreakingly human. They’re drowning, and instead of saving themselves, they throw life rings at everyone else.

The trick is learning how to swim together.

If this hit home, share it with someone. You never know who’s quietly struggling to stay afloat. ❤️