Chapter 1

My cousin had an accident at the construction site. He urgently needed eighty thousand for surgery.

My wife controlled all the money at home, so I asked her to lend that money to my uncle's family first.

"Eighty thousand? Can you even earn eighty thousand in a year? What are you playing at, big spender?"

She fiddled with her phone a couple of times, impatient. "Fine, it's transferred."

Not long after, my aunt called.

"Hugh Finch, if you don't want to lend the money, just don't. What's the meaning of sending eighty cents?"

"Your cousin's life is hanging by a thread, and this is how you treat family?"

My wife took the phone from me, unhurried.

"Auntie, things are tight for us too. Eighty cents is the most we can do."

"Besides, he was impaled through the chest by a steel rebar. What happens when you lose both him and the money?"

With that, she hung up.

Later, because he missed the window for treatment, my cousin died.

A week later, her first love, Quinn Lawrence, bought a car, and she paid the two-hundred-thousand down payment for him herself.

The day Quinn picked up the car, she posted on her feed to show it off: "A luxury car for a brilliant man. Perfect match~"

When I called to confront her, she was breezy about it.

"It's Quinn's first car ever. If I don't help him, who will?"

Holding my cousin's memorial photo in my arms, I thought back on all the little moments from when we were kids.

And suddenly I laughed. In this rotten marriage, I was the one who'd been too dumb to see it all along.

1

The seventh day after my cousin's death,

I didn't leave the house all day. I just sat on the living room couch, holding his memorial photo against my chest.

A week ago, at noon, I got the call from my uncle.

His voice was breaking apart. He said my cousin's safety line had come loose while he was working up on the scaffolding, and he'd fallen the whole way down, chest run straight through by a thick steel rebar.

They were still trying to save him, the bleeding wouldn't stop, and the hospital had already issued a critical condition notice.

Eighty thousand for the surgery had to be paid up front, immediately, or they'd stop the operation and stop the medication.

One minute too late, and he'd have no chance.

My mind went blank on the spot. I forgot all about work, asked my boss for leave, and rode my electric scooter home like a madman.

Three years of marriage, and I'd never once had a say over the money at home.

From the day we registered our marriage, Queenie Pruitt told me a household is only stable when the woman handles the finances.

I believed her.

For three years, the second my twelve-thousand salary hit my account each month, I transferred it straight to her card.

Year-end bonus, overtime pay, the odd bit of cash from a side job. I kept none of it.

I always had just a few hundred on me. I smoked the cheapest cigarettes, never bought new clothes or shoes, wore the same work uniform through every season.

I thought if I lived steady and honest, it would earn me a good marriage.

That day I got home and told her my cousin had had an accident, that we needed eighty thousand right now to save his life.

She didn't even glance at me.

"Eighty thousand? You work yourself to death all year and don't clear eighty thousand. Who are you playing hero for?"

"What's wrong with your relatives, always coming around asking for money?"

I was frantic, pacing back and forth, explaining it to her over and over.

It's not a loan, it's his life. My cousin is dying.

I was getting on her nerves, and she brushed me off with a frown.

"All right, all right, quit yelling in my ear. It's transferred."

Hearing that, the boulder on my chest finally hit the ground.

I even felt guilty inside, thinking I shouldn't have snapped at her, shouldn't have doubted her.

I grabbed my keys to rush to the hospital.

And the next second, my aunt's call came through.

There was nothing on the line but crying, raw and torn open.

"Hugh Finch, your cousin is about to stop breathing. If you don't want to help, just say so. What is the meaning of sending eighty cents!"

"Is humiliating our whole family fun to you!"

I froze where I stood, hands and feet going cold in an instant.

Eighty cents.

Eighty thousand to save a life, and she'd sent me eighty cents.

Before I could react, Queenie snatched the phone from my hand, her tone light as air.

"Auntie, we're an ordinary family too. Life isn't easy for us."

"Eighty cents is a token. It's the thought that counts."

"His injuries are too severe. Even if they save him, he'll be a cripple. Rather than throw tens of thousands away for nothing, better to accept his fate."

With that, she hung up and tossed the phone onto the coffee table.

I stared at her, shaking all over.