For six years, a wife found beach sand in her accountant husband’s pockets, but never asked any questions.

One day, the woman couldn’t take it anymore and decided to follow her husband. The truth she learned left her numb with horror.

I noticed the yellow sand by accident. I was turning my pockets inside out before washing them, as I always did, and suddenly large, shiny grains fell onto the floor. I was completely confused. My husband worked as an accountant and spent all day in his office. Where did he get sand in his pants, especially sand like it came from the beach?

I didn’t say anything then. I swept it up, threw it away, and decided I’d imagined it. But a week later, it happened again. Then again. Sometimes the sand was in my back pocket, sometimes in my jacket, once even in my shirt cuff. And every time it was a Saturday.

On Saturdays, Victor got up at six in the morning. He dressed quietly so as not to wake me, and left without breakfast. He returned in the evening tired, with dirty shoes. He said he was swamped with work, with reports. I nodded. Thirty years of marriage teaches you to trust words, even if something inside you is already clawing.

For six years I kept silent. For six years I swept the sand and pretended not to notice. I was afraid to ask because I was afraid of the answer. But that day, everything inside me burst. I realized I wanted to know what my husband was hiding and I was ready for any truth.

One Saturday, he left the house, and without thinking, I threw on my coat and followed him.

I kept my distance so he wouldn’t notice. He boarded a bus, then got off on the outskirts of town. There were no offices or factories there. Just an old quarry and a narrow road leading to an abandoned warehouse.

And at that moment, I realized I was about to learn the terrible truth. What I saw next truly horrified me. 

I hid behind a concrete slab and watched as my husband, the chief accountant, came down with a shovel.

He started digging. Slowly, confidently, like someone who’d done this before. Then he took out a metal sieve and began sifting the sand. At first, I didn’t understand. Then I saw small, shiny grains remaining at the bottom of the sieve.

Gold.

He washed sand in a plastic trough, carefully collecting the shiny bits, pouring them into a small container, and tucking them into his backpack. Everything was done efficiently, calmly, without fuss, as if this were his second profession.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

For six years, he mined gold illegally every Saturday. Without a license, without permits.

He earned black money and kept quiet. He didn’t even think it necessary to say a word to me.

He was sure I wouldn’t notice. That I’d simply wash his pants and dump the sand in them without asking any questions.

I stood there and realized that I was living with a person I didn’t know.