For the sake of her sick first love, Osborn Abraham, my wife, Leila Shaw, pretended to be poor for thirty years. When our son, Ward Altman, fell ill and required hospitalization, I, Peter Altman, I borrowed money from every relative and friend I knew. I was only two hundred yuan short of the surgery fee. No matter how much I begged, Leila simply said she had no money to give me. To cover the cost, my mother secretly sold the medicine she needed the most. She gave up her treatment—and died because of it. I handled my mother’s funeral alone. When I went to pick up my son from the hospital, I accidentally found the shopping receipts my wife had accumulated over the years in the closet. Custom-tailored suits, watches worth hundreds of millions, even a private jet… Clutching those receipts, I stormed up to Leila to demand an explanation, but my son Ward stopped me. "Dad, Osborn isn’t in good health. Mom is just taking good care of him. Why are you making a fuss?" I looked at the son whose life had just been bought with my mother’s death, and a piercing pain stabbed through my chest. Leila, standing beside him, said indifferently, "Osborn is well-educated. Of course he needs the best of everything." "Unlike you. You are just a househusband throwing a tantrum over a few hundred dollars." "See? I didn’t give you any money, and our son turned out fine anyway." Fine. Since both mother and son thought this way, there was no reason for me to stay in this family any longer.
After throwing the receipts to the floor, I walked out the door. Leila chased after me and thrust a basket into my hands. "Our son has just recovered. Remember to buy some ribs." "I've already given you this month's grocery allowance. Don't ask me for more." Her face wore that same smile, as if nothing had happened, as if my sacrifices were nothing out of the ordinary. Thirty-five years ago, when Leila's monthly salary was a hundred dollars, she had happily given me thirty to run the house. But now, her monthly salary had long since exceeded six figures, yet the money she gave me for groceries was still only thirty bucks. She said research at the school was expensive, that our child’s education cost a lot. But she never told me that she actually had so much money—money she had been giving to another man. I looked down at the basket and laughed bitterly. "I don't feel like cooking tonight. You two can fend for yourselves." Leila's expression darkened instantly. "Pete, are you still making a fuss over those two hundred dollars?" "Fine, no ribs then. Just go back and stew a chicken for us. We’ll make do." After thirty-five years of marriage, Leila had grown entitled and detached. But she wasn't always like this. Thirty-five years ago, when we first got married, she had told me, "Pete, let's work together to build the best life." o what exactly was that “best life”? Was it spending all my savings to buy her books and supplements? Was it me standing on a stool all night, holding a basin to catch the dripping rainwater from the roof so she could study in peace? Before I even turned thirty, I developed severe joint pain. On rainy days, the pain was so excruciating I would foam at the mouth. When I asked Leila Shaw for some money to buy medicine, she only said, “People get like this when they get older. Just bear with it and it’ll pass.” All the while, she was spending two-thirds of her salary on medication for Osborn. I only learned the truth today. The irony felt unbearable. I lifted my eyes and said, "Leila, let's get a divorce." Leila was stunned. Then, she doubled over laughing, as if I had told the funniest joke in the world. "Pete, do you know what you're saying?" "Divorce? That isn't a word for someone like you." "Fine. If you don't want to cook, then don't. Go buy something for us to eat." She dug into her pocket, pulled out two crumpled ten-dollar notes, and stuffed them into my palm. "I remember you like that sesame cake. Buy yourself one. And pick up some pizza while you're at it. Ward wants some." Her tone was earnest. I couldn't tell if it was because I had mentioned divorce, or if she actually felt a shred of guilt. In thirty-five years of marriage, this was the first time she had ever voluntarily given me extra money. I stood rooted in the doorway, the bills a dead weight in my hand. When I finally looked up, Leila was gone, the door sealed shut behind her. Trapped in the hall, I could only listen to the distant, muffled sound of Ward's indignant protests from the other side. "Mom, you shouldn't have given Dad anything." "He only dares to make a scene because you indulge him." "If you ask me, don't give him a single cent. Let him spend his pension." Leila fell silent for a moment before speaking slowly. "Your father's pension has been going to Osborn for years." "You know Osborn is a man of dignity. If he knew he had nothing left, that his pension was gone after the factory fired him, the shock would kill him." It sounded like she really felt sorry for him. I gripped the handle of the patchwork basket until my knuckles turned white. Only then did I remember the past. That year, just after Leila had given birth to our daughter, Esther Altman, and was still recovering at home, I had received the news: I had been fired from the factory. Bearing the weight of a new family, I couldn't accept it, so I planned to demand an explanation from the director. But Leila had gripped my hand, weeping, begging me not to go. She told me to think about our newborn child. To think about my own health. She said she had already finished graduate school, and once she recovered from childbirth, she would earn money to support both me and the baby. She asked me to stay home and take care of the family and our child. Yet it wasn't me who had been fired all those years ago. It was Osborn! It was Leila Shaw who secretly manipulated everything, letting Osborn take my identity and continue working in my place. But the factory refused to keep his benefits or enroll him in a pension plan. It was Leila who transferred my pension to him month after month. For twenty-five years, I was a househusband with no income. For twenty-five years, I blamed myself. For twenty-five years, I resented myself. I never understood why I had been kicked out. It turned out that it was all orchestrated by the person I loved the most! The basket slipped from my fingers and hit the floor. I pulled out my phone and dialed my neighbor, Rex Trollpoe, a lawyer. "Rex, I’d like to ask about filing for a litigated divorce."
When I returned from Rex's house, Leila was sitting in the living room, her face livid as she watched TV. Under the bright lights of the house, I realized that though she was no longer young, she was still as graceful and beautiful as ever. Apart from her graying hair and the lines around her eyes, time seemed to have spared her. I recalled that just a month ago, I had seen Osborn’s posts on social media. He was in France. The man in the photos looked vibrant, nothing like someone approaching sixty. I had mentioned it to Leila with a tinge of envy. “Why is it that when people get older, they can travel and enjoy life, while we’re stuck in this tiny little world?” Leila had smiled at me. “Our son isn’t married yet. Let’s save more money first. Once he’s settled down, the two of us can travel together too.” That day, I had actually looked forward to it. I pictured Leila and me traveling hand in hand in our old age. I had worked even harder at odd jobs, scraping together every cent for Ward's future, thinking I was building a dream for us. But I never could have imagined that the other half of Osborn's photo, the part cropped out of the frame, had featured Leila in a flowing silk dress. They wore matching colors, looking like a couple who had walked through decades together. Meanwhile, I stood by the stove in our drafty apartment, choking on cooking fumes. All I could do was ask Ward, who was always impatient, what foreign countries were really like. When I came back, Leila turned off the TV and crossed her arms over her chest, clearly ready to lecture me. I knew she was angry that I hadn't brought back dinner. If this had been in the past, I would have apologized immediately and cooked a full table of dishes to make up for being late. But not tonight. I pretended not to notice her expression, changed my shoes, and headed toward the bedroom. Leila's rage spiraled instantly. She slammed the remote onto the coffee table with a crack and pointed a finger at my nose, ready to sold me. But she stopped when she saw the calmness on my face. ", if you’re unhappy about something, just say it. We’ve been together for so many years. You don't have to beat around the bush." Her surprise was genuine. She didn’t believe I would really be upset over two hundred dollars. Nor did she believe that, after discovering evidence of her affair, I would actually leave her. I laughed bitterly. "I've made myself clear, Leila. We are getting a divorce. It's that simple." Now that I brought it up again, Leila flew into a rage from humiliation. "Pete! Ward was right. I’ve been too lenient with you all these years!" "Divorce? What would you even do after a divorce? Can you even support yourself?" It was true. All these years, the meager earnings from my odd jobs had gone into supporting this house and our children. Even my pension had been used by her to please another man. I lifted my head and pointed at everything in the house. “Which thing in this house wasn’t bought with the money I earned from odd jobs?” “Leila, where has all your money gone over the years? Don’t you know that in your own heart?” As our quarrel continued, Ward burst out of his room wearing headphones. He pointed a finger at me. “That’s enough, Dad! Aren’t you just accusing Mom of cheating?” "Let's get one thing straight: Osborn and Mom are just friends. Only someone as filthy-minded as you would think otherwise!” My fingers curled tight into white-knuckled fists before I even knew it. My gaze fixed on Ward, the very boy for whom my mother had traded her life, and the memory crashed over me. Before my mother died, she had pressed a wad of crumpled bills into my hand, money she had earned from collecting scrap metal. "Ward is growing up. Buy him good food. He needs to build his strength." I could no longer hold back my emotions. I raised my hand and slapped my son across the face, tears streaming down as I shouted, "Do you even know that just because your mother refused to give me two hundred dollars... Your grandma sold the very medicine that was keeping her alive! She is dead!" Ward froze for an instant, then sneered with cold contempt. “Dad, that’s ridiculous. Just to get money from Mom, you’d even joke about Grandma’s death? Did you lose your mind?” At that moment, the calmness on Leila’s face disappeared as well. She wrenched open her wallet, pulled out two hundred dollars, and shoved it at me. "Alright, Pete. It's just two hundred dollars. How long are you going to make a scene about it?" “I’ll give it to you, okay? Let’s drop this matter. We won’t bring it up again.” She turned to comfort Ward, as if she were truly a reasonable, understanding mother. I looked at the bills in my hand. Slowly, I shook my head. “This can’t be brushed aside. This… won’t pass.”
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