Chapter 1

"Eight thousand six hundred dollars." I pushed a stack of collection letters flat across the coffee table, my fingertip pressing heavily on the red bank warning notice at the very top.

On the sofa, my wife Emily was casually flipping through the charity foundation's promotional brochure for the next quarter. Today she was wearing that highly photographed beige knit sweater. Just two hours ago, the local news channel broadcasted footage of her handing out hot soup in the slums. Now, everyone was praising this grand "Community Angel" of Michigan.

Only this pile of bills in front of me knew that the angel's wings were bought with my life.

"Three thousand for the mortgage, eight hundred for your car loan, six hundred for Dad's imported heart medication, four hundred for Mom's insulin, plus the private school tuition for the two kids." I stared into her eyes, my voice completely flat. "And my salary this month, even with overtime, is only five thousand two hundred."

I am a mechanical technician at an auto parts factory. Every day, wrapped in blue overalls, I roll under cars, the black grease in my fingernails impossible to scrub off even with industrial-strength soap. But I have to grit my teeth, because the food, drink, and daily expenses of this family of five all rest strictly on my shoulders.

All because Emily, as the head of the "Light of Hope" Foundation, donates her entire monthly salary of eight thousand dollars, not keeping a single cent.

By donating money, she has become a local celebrity, a soft-spoken living saint under the spotlight. Meanwhile, as her husband, I am juggling four credit cards just to plug the massive financial hole every month.

Seven consecutive months of deficits have led to collection calls coming straight to my workshop. When my team leader patted my shoulder the day before yesterday and told me not to push myself too hard, that look blending sympathy and disdain remained etched in my mind.

"So, can you keep just one thousand dollars this month?" I looked at her. "With just that much, I can pay off the card that's about to go overdue."

Emily put down the brochure and let out a long sigh. She reached out with her well-manicured hands and gently grabbed my calloused hand, her eyes brimming with an undeniable look of heartache.

"Darling, I know you are working incredibly hard." Her voice was exceedingly soft, as if soothing an ignorant child. "But have you considered that those poor children will run out of food next month? If we donate less, three families won't have a single bite to eat."

Her thumb gently rubbed the back of my hand as she continued to bind me with her flawless rhetoric: "Just grit your teeth and hold on a little longer, okay? When the foundation receives the special state government subsidy next year, I promise I'll keep the money for the family. You've always been my biggest supporter, haven't you?"

In the past, hearing such soft and gentle pleas, I might have just silently stuffed those collection notices back into my pocket.

But now, it only made my stomach turn. Those three families have nothing to eat, so I just have to sit back and watch my credit score completely collapse?

I took the opportunity to pull my hand back. Before I could speak, a figure walked out of the kitchen holding a fruit platter.

"Mike, I'm not trying to criticize you." My mother-in-law slammed the sliced apples down on the coffee table, glancing at me through half-drooping eyelids. "My daughter is busy doing charity work until late every night. Even if you don't help her, how do you have the nerve to bother her with the family's messy bills? Shouldn't a husband be a bit more considerate?"

Sitting on the single sofa nearby, my father-in-law also pushed up his reading glasses, rustling his newspaper loudly. "Our family is highly respected in the community now. Go take a walk down the street—who doesn't praise your good luck in marrying a living saint of a wife? If you're short a few hundred bucks, you're a grown man, just go find a part-time job and deal with it. Are you expecting a woman to support you?"

Hearing the commotion, my two children, who were playing tug-of-war with a toy, immediately dropped it and threw themselves into Emily's arms.

"Mom is the best!" my six-year-old son shouted loudly.

My eight-year-old daughter turned to glare fiercely at me, her eyes filled with a protective, almost feral hostility. "You're so mean, Dad! Don't make Mom sad!"

Emily smoothly wrapped her arms around her children, resting her chin on her daughter's head, and gently comforted them. "Don't blame Dad, sweetheart. He isn't bullying Mom. He loves us just the same."

What a touching scene, exactly like the Virgin Mary reciting a bedtime story.

Sitting across from them, looking at this tightly knit family of four, my lips curled into a very faint, mocking smirk.

This is the family I work myself to death to provide for.

My father-in-law takes imported life-saving meds bought with my credit card while mocking me for being useless; my mother-in-law injects the insulin I pay for while despising me for being inconsiderate; my wife uses an income that could easily plug our family's financial holes to fish for fame, turning around and leaving me to shoulder all the high-interest debt. Even my own flesh and blood have been brainwashed into thinking I'm nothing more than a bottom-tier laborer meant to provide them with survival resources.

I thought I would be furious, but oddly enough, my mind was exceptionally clear at this moment. It was a sense of detachment, where reason completely overrode emotion.

When you realize you're in a nest of parasites, trying to reason with them is the most laughable thing you can do. Only the weak fall into endless emotional turmoil; adults merely look at the results.

I didn't need to argue with them at all. Without my meager but steady blood supply, their facade of dignity, built on shifting sand, would collapse in an instant.

There was no need to waste any more words.

Sweeping my gaze across that stack of papers totaling eight thousand six hundred dollars, I pulled out one; it was the prescription list for my father-in-law's medication next week. I folded it in half, followed by the credit card's final ultimatum.

"It's good that you understand." Emily watched my movements, a satisfied curve appearing at the corner of her lips, thinking her guilt trip had worked once again. "I always knew my husband was the most responsible."

I didn't reply. I stuffed all the folded bills back into the pocket of my overalls and stood up to leave.

"Get some rest." Leaving behind those words, I walked straight to the bedroom.

Under this twisted roof, tonight was my final test. From this moment on, I will not spend a single cent on them ever again.

3:00 AM.

Thirst made me open my eyes from a light sleep. To avoid waking the woman sleeping soundly next to me with her silk eye mask, I tiptoed around to the kitchen to pour some water.

As I walked past the pitch-black living room with my glass of water, the light from the streetlamp outside slanted in, hitting a massive framed photo on the wall perfectly.

It was a family portrait of the six of us. In the photo, my wife and children smiled brilliantly, and my parents-in-law were glowing with health. Everyone was showing off their ultimate superiority and happiness to the camera.

Except for me, standing at the very edge. Wearing an old, faded shirt and looking exhausted, I seemed like a background prop that could be replaced at any time.

This image used to make me feel deeply guilty, making me think I wasn't working hard enough and failing to give them a better life.

But right at this very second, I just thought this group photo was an utterly absurd joke.

I tilted my head back and downed the cold water in my glass in one gulp.