On my birthday, my wife, Iris Lockwood, has ordered a few workers to carry a dust-covered second-hand air conditioner home as my birthday present.

She points at the air conditioner while gushing excitedly, "This is a big brand, you know! It might look dirty on the outside, but the insides are brand new!

"Remember, we're scrimping all the pennies we can get in order to move into a penthouse in the future. That way, we'll be able to live comfortably as a family of three!"

I'm very understanding toward Iris, seeing as it's very difficult to earn money nowadays. So, I endure the pain that's flaring from an old hip injury I've sustained during my early days as a manual laborer as I crouch on the floor and clean the air conditioner for two long hours.

But as soon as it's turned on, chemical powder sprays from it, soon filling the whole apartment. Because of that, our three-year-old son, Flynn Holt, goes into shock immediately from the severe allergy.

With red-rimmed eyes, I yell at Iris to take Flynn to the hospital. But she quickly leaves after taking a phone call.

"Crap, my biggest client is met with a car accident! I need to deal with it right away! You can flag down a cab and take Flynn to the hospital on your own!"

That midnight, I head over to Quantum Heights, which is known as the most luxurious residence in the city, after receiving a phone call regarding the wrong address.

In the corridor, I see Iris embracing a young man. She has nothing but love and affection for him.

"There's no need to save money, you know. Young men at your age love new and branded goods, don't you?"

Right… To Iris, a useless husband like me who didn't have an educational background only deserved to use second-hand things.

But even the most saintly man will revolt one day once his patience is worn out. Besides, I've been faking my nice, understanding personality all along.

My wife, Iris Lockwood, earned 45 thousand dollars a year, yet she was a penny-pincher. Almost all the furniture and appliances in our home were items she had scavenged from local secondhand groups.

The genuine leather couch in the living room had edges that were peeling and mottled, but she insisted, "Darling, this is top-grain leather. It originally cost more than six thousand dollars. The previous owner was in a rush to move abroad, so I snagged it for 100 dollars. Once you wipe off the dust, it's practically as good as new!"

The washing machine in the bathroom would let out a roar like a tractor during the spin cycle, but she would just smile and reassure me, "This brand has a great motor. The louder it is, the stronger it is, and therefore it washes better. We're pinching pennies now so we can move into a luxury apartment in the future and give you and our son a better life!"

Every time I heard her say things like that, I was reminded of how difficult it was for her to earn money. I even felt fortunate to have a woman who was willing to budget so meticulously for the sake of our family.

Consequently, I wore 5-dollar discounted shoes, smoked the cheapest cigarettes, and couldn't even bring myself to buy a shaver that cost more than 30 dollars. Every month, after I was paid, I only kept 80 dollars for myself as pocket money. The rest went straight into our joint account.

…

One afternoon, while I was cleaning, I fished a man's necktie out from the cushions of that secondhand couch. It was from a renowned luxury brand and appeared to be relatively new.

That evening, when Iris came home from work, I held up the tie and asked, "Honey, why is there someone else's tie inside this couch?"

Iris froze mid-stride while changing her shoes and naturally broke into a smile. "Oh, what's so strange about that? It's secondhand furniture. The previous owner must've dropped it in the gap."

"But you told me the previous owner was a woman."

After hearing that, she stiffened for a second before her face clouded with a hint of impatience. "It was probably her boyfriend's. Consider it a free gift, then. You never bother to dress up anyway, so this tie is a bargain for you…"

Her words didn't sit right with me, so I immediately tossed the tie into the trash. "No thanks. I don't want anything someone else has already had."

"Oh, so now you're being picky?" she teased. "Guys who use that brand are always clean and well put together. You really should learn a thing or two from them…"

With that, she turned and walked into the bedroom. An indescribable sense of unease welled up in my heart, but the sound of my son, Flynn Holt, wailing interrupted my stray thoughts.

…

Merely a few days later, the buzzing secondhand refrigerator in our home finally gave up the ghost. I called Iris and asked her to pick up a new one on her way home from work.

"Darling, buying a new one is such a waste of money. It just so happens that someone in the local group is selling a secondhand double-door fridge. It's in great condition, and it's only a grand! I'll hire a delivery van to bring it home tonight. Don't you worry about it!"

At 10:00 pm, Iris directed the movers as they carried a silver double-door refrigerator through the door. The fridge did indeed look brand new, but the moment I opened the door, a pungent scent—a heavy mix of odors dominated by strong cheese—hit me full in the face.

However, I was used to it.

I honestly had no idea what kind of people were in that secondhand group Iris had joined. Every time she scavenged an appliance, it looked fairly new, yet the previous owners never seemed to take care of it, always leaving behind stubborn stains and grime that were difficult to clean.

I had to wipe this fridge down three times with a rag and leave half a box of pomelo peels inside before the smell finally dissipated.

Late that night, I got out of bed to go to the kitchen for a glass of water. When I walked past the living room, I noticed Iris standing beside that "secondhand fridge", sending a voice message.

Her voice was extremely soft, yet I still caught bits and pieces of it. "...I've already gotten rid of the old one. It didn't cost me anything… That four-door fridge will be delivered tomorrow, so wait at home for it…"

I was frozen in place, an incredibly eerie feeling bubbling inside me. Who was Iris talking to? Was she buying a brand new refrigerator for someone else?

I stared long and hard at the secondhand fridge, a wave of baseless loathing surging within me.

…

July in the South was sweltering, with temperatures almost hitting 140°F. The old apartment we rented had terrible insulation, and our three-year-old son, Flynn, broke out in a heat rash from the heat. My heart ached for him.

Since my birthday was just around the corner, I told Iris that I wanted a new air conditioner. So, she returned with one at 3:00 pm.

A glimmer of joy welled up inside me. I hadn't expected someone as frugal as her to agree so readily this time. When I got closer, my brows immediately knitted.

This air conditioner was a new model—a high-end unit from a major brand—and even the vent blades looked fairly new. However, the outer casing was revoltingly filthy.

Not only were there large patches of unidentified black stains, but several pieces of chewed gum were stuck to it. It even emitted a sour, putrid stench, as if someone had intentionally dumped trash all over it.

"Why is this air conditioner so filthy?" Pinching my nose, I took a step back.

Iris set the air conditioner down on the floor and kicked off her high heels. "It's secondhand. You can't expect every seller to be a clean freak. Don't let the dirty exterior fool you; the internal mechanics are brand new. Can't you just grab a rag and wipe it down yourself?"

Having said her piece, she sprawled out on the couch and started playing with her phone.

So, it was another secondhand appliance. Even my birthday present didn't deserve to be new.

Unfortunately, I was poorly educated and could only earn money through physical labor. Iris not only earned a higher salary than me, but she had also given me a son. So, I should be more considerate of her.

With that thought in mind, I endured the sharp pain in my lower back and crouched on the floor, scrubbing away those stubborn stains and bits of chewing gum.

My back injury was a chronic issue left over from my younger days working on construction sites. Usually, if I stayed bent over for more than ten minutes, it would start to sting like I was being stabbed with needles.

That day, I spent a full two hours scrubbing the air conditioner. My back was killing me, and I could barely stand upright, but I finally brought the exterior back to its original white.

"Alright. Let's get it installed," I panted heavily, leaning against the wall for support.

Iris called someone over to mount the air conditioner on the wall. With a beep, the unit started up. However, the moment the blades opened, a cloud of white powder with a pungent, chemical odor sprayed out.

I coughed so violently that tears streamed down my cheeks, and I instinctively covered my mouth and nose. In the blink of an eye, the strange powder scattered into every corner of the room. Even Flynn, who was lying in his crib, was covered in a thin layer of it.

Flynn choked on the powder and burst into heart-wrenching sobs. I hurried over and picked him up, only to hear Iris' furious bellow.

"Dylan Holt, are you blind? I told you to clean the air conditioner, and you didn't even wipe the dust inside the vent? Are you happy now that the whole house is covered in dust, you useless piece of shit?"

I was so enraged that I thought my lungs were going to burst. "This isn't dust. It's some kind of chemical powder! Who hides this much powder inside an air conditioner? Clearly, someone dumped this in there on purpose!"

"Cut the crap!" Her eyes flickered. "So what if a secondhand air conditioner has a little dust? You're just bitter that I didn't buy you a new one, so you're intentionally picking a fight. You made this mess, so clean it up on your own!"

Right after saying that, she slammed the door and went into the bedroom.

As I held our wailing son, the agonizing pain in my back mingled with the fury in my chest. My knuckles cracked as I clenched my fists.

However, the very next moment, I realized something was wrong with Flynn. Large patches of red rashes had broken out across his body. His face was severely swollen, and his breathing had grown rapid and shallow.

"Iris, hurry up and open the door! Flynn is having an allergic reaction; he can't breathe! We need to rush him to the hospital right now!" I pounded on the bedroom door like a madman.

Iris opened the door reluctantly. Then, she took one look at Flynn and frowned. "Why's he so sensitive? It's just a rash. Can't you just apply some lotion on it?"

"He's going into shock! Hurry up and get the car keys," I bellowed, my eyes bloodshot.

Noticing that the situation was indeed dire, Iris finally grabbed the car keys and prepared to head out, grumbling and cursing under her breath all the while.

Just then, Iris' phone rang. After glancing at the caller ID, her hardened expression instantly softened. Instinctively, she turned her back to me and answered the call. "Hello? What's wrong? What? Are you bleeding?"

A man's muffled groans might've come from the other end of the line, and her expression immediately tightened with anxiety. "Alright, alright, stay there. I'm coming over right now!"

After hanging up, she turned around and said, "A major client from the company was involved in a car accident. I have to go deal with it right now. You should hail a cab and take Flynn to the hospital on your own."

"Iris, your son's dying!" I clutched her sleeve. "Who could possibly be more important than your own son's life?"

"What the hell do you know? If we lose this client, our whole family's going to starve!" Iris forcefully shook my hand off and rushed out the door without a single backward glance.

Gritting my teeth, I cradled my semi-conscious son in my arms. Without putting on shoes, I sprinted down six flights of stairs and flagged down a cab on the street.

…

In the emergency room, the doctor put Flynn on a ventilator and administered epinephrine to treat his allergic reaction.

"He inhaled a potent allergenic chemical dust, which triggered acute allergic asthma. If you had brought him in ten minutes later, even the gods couldn't have saved him!" the doctor reprimanded me sternly.

I slumped onto the bench outside the emergency room, my entire body trembling. Recalling the tender tone Iris had used when she answered that phone call, the suspicion in my heart began to grow like weeds.

I took out my old iPad, which I had previously used to secretly sync with Iris's phone location, and booted up the tracking app. The GPS showed that her car was parked in the underground garage of the most luxurious hotel in the city, Echelon Grand Hotel.

My mind instantly went blank. While our son's life was on the line in the emergency room, she had actually run off to a hotel?

I asked a nurse to keep an eye on Flynn, hailed a cab, and raced toward the Echelon Grand Hotel. Following the movement of the tracker, I made my way all the way to the fine dining restaurant on the third floor of the hotel.

Iris' laughter, along with the sound of a man's voice, drifted from inside the private room. I took a deep breath and shoved the door open. "Iris, you bitch—" I stopped short, realizing there was nothing inappropriate going on.

Around a massive round table sat seven or eight middle-aged women dressed in professional business attire. Iris was holding a wine glass, standing beside a sharp, sophisticated female executive with a sycophantic look on her face. There were men present, but they were only a few assistants dressed in formal suits.

The room fell into a deathly silence. Everyone stared at me—a man with disheveled hair and clothes covered in white powder—as if I were a madman.

Iris' face flushed crimson as she lunged forward, dragged me out of the private room, and slammed me hard against the wall in the hallway. "Have you lost your mind, Dylan? What are you doing here?" she hissed.

"Didn't you tell me that your client was involved in a car accident, and you were taking them to the hospital?" I asked quietly, my mind in complete disarray.

"My client's husband was the one who was injured. I called an ambulance. Does it look like I need to personally escort him? The woman inside is the biggest investor in my company. I can't afford to make a single mistake!"

She fumed, pointing at my nose. "How did you even find me here? Did you think I was cheating on you, so you came to catch me in the act? Look at you, look how pathetic and slovenly you are right now!

"Instead of taking care of Flynn, you spend all day being paranoid. Get lost! I don't have time to coddle you!" Having said her piece, she shoved me away, straightened her suit, plastered a smile on her face, and stepped back into the private room.

Leaning against the carpeted wall of the hallway, I couldn't help but feel like something wasn't adding up. Had I truly wronged her? Was she really out here working herself to the bone for our family while I suspected her of having an affair and even nearly ruined her career?

I walked out of the hotel in a daze. By the time I returned to the hospital, Flynn's condition had stabilized, and he was fast asleep.

Looking at my son's red, swollen little face, my heart filled with guilt. I picked up my phone and was about to text Iris an apology.

Right then, a call came in from an unknown number. "Hello, is this Mr. Holt? I'm a deliveryman from Mythra Technologies."

The voice on the other end sounded somewhat anxious. "The central air conditioner Ms. Lockwood ordered—the one worth nine thousand dollars—has arrived, but her line has been busy, and I can't get through.

"I checked the system and found the backup number you provided five years ago when you were shopping for a bed. Could you please contact her to open the door for me?"