To facilitate my dialysis treatments, I rented the most expensive, exclusive parking spot closest to the hospital. But my wife’s childhood friend always, on rainy days, with red-rimmed eyes, begged me to give him the spot, claiming his asthma meant he couldn’t get wet. I refused: “There's a public parking lot nearby. It's just a few extra steps. Why do you need to take mine?” When my wife found out, she was furious: “Can’t you be a little kinder? His asthma flared up; he nearly died on the road!” I didn’t understand: “He has a car, yet he chooses to get soaked in the rain just to take my spot. How is that my fault? Besides, it’s an exclusive spot; I paid for it, first come, first served.” My wife fell silent: “I’m sorry, I was too anxious.” For the next few months, she drove me to and from appointments, rain or shine. But on the day I suffered acute kidney failure and desperately needed emergency treatment, she drove me around for three hours, deliberately missing the crucial window for treatment. On the hospital’s large screen, she was seen embracing her childhood friend, a cold smile on her face: “Didn't you say 'first come, first served'? Now there are no beds available in the dialysis unit. I'd like to see how long your life has to wait in line.”
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