My wife had spent every cent of our savings and even plunged us into debt, all to treat her father’s illness.

By day, I juggled three jobs. By night, I took my son along to collect junk, doing whatever it took just to scrape by.

Then, one evening, while delivering food to a luxury hotel, I caught sight of something that made my blood run cold. There she was, my wife, alongside her supposedly deceased father, smiling as they sang a birthday song to her first love’s son.

Envious chatter from the hotel staff drifted to my ears.

“President Lancaster really dotes on the young master. She booked the entire venue for his birthday; it must’ve cost hundreds of thousands!”

“Hundreds of thousands? That’s nothing! I heard she’s handing out gifts too, ten grand each!”

I stood frozen, staring blankly at the joyful scene unfolding in front of me, a picture-perfect family drenched in luxury.

No one there knew that her real son was lying in a hospital bed, burning up with fever.

He’d gone out in the rain to gather recyclables just to help ease his mom’s burden.

——

Even in that state, my son looked up at me, eyes dim but voice soft.

“Dad, don’t worry. I’ll be okay after a nap. Just don’t tell Mom, okay?”

I swallowed the bitterness clawing at my chest and gave a silent nod. After leaving the hospital, I tried calling Amara Lancaster, hoping, just hoping, she’d come to see our son.

But I never expected that she’d be unreachable because she’d been busy celebrating someone else’s child.

And the father-in-law we once believed was gravely ill, even declared dead, was now calling another man standing beside her “son-in-law.”

A coldness crept through me, sinking deep into my bones. I stepped aside, pulled out my phone again and dialed Amara’s number.

Still no answer.

Right then, the hotel manager marched over, his tone sharp and impatient. He snatched the delivery box from my hands and snapped.

“What took you so long? Keep this up and I’ll leave you a bad review!”

I quickly bowed and mumbled an apology. One bad review and a whole day’s effort would be for nothing.

Maybe it was my unshaven face or the exhaustion weighing down every step, but I must’ve looked truly pitiful at that moment.

The manager let out a cold snort and muttered, as if tossing me a favor I didn’t ask for. “Forget it; you’ve had it rough. Miss Lancaster’s handing out gifts soon. Say a few birthday blessings and you’ll get one!”

“That sure beats running around like a dog delivering food all month!”

Bitterness surged in my chest. Really? That’s great, I thought.

At least now, I’d have enough to pay my son’s hospital bill.

A moment later, the manager came back with the delivery box. Amara leaned in and whispered something into his ear.

“Come on, get in line! Wish the young master a happy birthday and grab your gift envelope!” he called out.

With that shout, the hotel staff swarmed forward, excitement flashing across their faces.

I tugged my mask higher and pulled down the brim of my helmet, quietly blending into the line.

Amara stood beside the boy, helping him open the gift I had delivered.

Inside was a robotic dog. The room fell silent for a moment, then someone whispered, stunned.

“Gosh, isn’t that the new AI learning dog? Released just two weeks ago? It’s made of pure 18K gold and those eyes are royal blue sapphires. One of these costs over five million!”

“That boy’s blessed beyond belief. In my next life, I want a mom like her…”

A bitter, mocking smile tugged at my lips.

If only these people knew that the real son of President Amara had to scavenge through trash in the pouring rain just to survive. Would they still look at him with envy?

Each time someone received the gift, they gasped in joy and praised Amara for her generosity.

In just ten minutes, she had given away hundreds of thousands, money that would take me years of grinding labor to earn.

When my turn finally came, I stood before the boy, holding that golden robotic dog like a crown jewel.

He looked noble, well-fed, well-dressed, sheltered from pain.

And then, my thoughts drifted to my son, frail and feverish, lying alone in a cold hospital bed.

My throat tightened like it had been stuffed with cotton.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t force out those birthday blessings.

“Hey, what’s your problem? If you’ve got nothing to say, then move on! Don’t block the line!”

Someone behind me snapped, shoving me hard. I stumbled to the side, caught off guard.

Ever since my son fell ill yesterday, every last cent I had gone into keeping him alive.

I hadn’t eaten in what felt like forever and I was running on nothing but grit and sheer will.

Every step I took felt heavier, every glance thrown my way like a slap to the face.

Mockery filled the air, thick and suffocating. I could barely hold my head up from the shame.

I tried to rise, but my legs buckled beneath me. My vision blurred and everything turned black.

“Are you okay? Low blood sugar?”

A voice cut through the haze, gentle yet unfamiliar. A hand reached out, offering a slice of cake.

It was Laurence Astor, Amara’s childhood sweetheart, the first man she ever loved.

Eight years ago, when the Lancaster family hit rock bottom, he broke up with her and left for abroad.

Amara, devastated, agreed to marry me.

Later, when her father fell gravely ill, all their savings were drained and the company had to be sold off.

I thought we had built something real through those years of hardship.

But now I realized my son and I were the only ones who had truly suffered.

“No need. Thank you.”

I avoided his hand, forcing myself to stand through the dizziness.

And just as I regained my footing, someone kicked me from behind. My face fell right into the cake Laurence had been holding.

Laughter erupted around me, sharp, merciless, like knives slicing through flesh.

Even Amara turned to look, her expression unreadable.

I scrambled to my feet, the humiliation stinging worse than the cream on my skin and fled the banquet hall.

After washing my face, I checked my phone. A new message had come in.

It was an email with an audio recording attached.

“Amara, when are you finally going to divorce that bootlicker?”

It was Laurence’s voice.

Amara let out a soft chuckle, her tone dripping with frost.

“If I hadn’t fought with you back then, that bootlicker wouldn’t have even had a shot.”

“And you were the one who came up with the plan, making my dad fake an illness so he’d transfer everything and push for a divorce. Who knew that bootlicker would cling on like a leech, even offering to repay the debts for me? Looks like we’ll have to cook up another plan.”

My chest tightened with pain.

So that was it; she’d only married me out of spite for Laurence.

She had staged everything to keep me from coveting her family’s fortune.

It was all just a well-played act.

But what had my son done wrong?

Why did he have to be dragged into her lies and suffer for it?

I wandered back to the hospital room in a daze, the bag of chicken sandwiches warm in my hand, a bitter smile tugging at my lips.

This would be the first taste of meat my son had in three long years.

After our family went bankrupt trying to save his grandfather, he had grown up far too fast, tagging along with me after school to pick up trash just to survive.

At school, he lived off plain steamed buns and bore the brunt of ridicule.

His classmates mocked him, taunted him and called him names.

Even so, with tears clinging to his lashes and bruises darkening his small face, he had looked at Amara and me, asking softly, “Dad, Mom, why did they used to call me ‘Young Master,’ but now they call me a beggar?”

My heart shattered.

I told him gently that real friends care about the person, not their wealth.

I would never forget how Amara cried as she clutched our son in her arms, her voice choked with guilt, whispering apologies, promising she’d work hard, earn money and give him a better life.

That woman, back then, was worlds apart from the one who had flaunted wealth like confetti at the hotel today.

Staring at my frail, pale son lying weakly in the hospital bed, my lips trembled. I bit down hard, but the tears still came, hot and uncontrollable.

During those three long years, her father pretended to be ill and I broke my back, working day and night, saving every cent just to give my son a birthday he could remember.

I wanted to take him to King's Fried Chicken, maybe even let him ride the carousel at the amusement park, just once.

But each time, like clockwork, the money vanished from my card, withdrawn by Amara.

She would apologize with red eyes, whispering that her father’s treatment couldn’t wait, begging me and our son to understand.

Even after he faked his death, for two more years, we were drowning in debt, barely able to scrape together rent.

Yet, through it all, my little boy never once complained.

He held his hunger like a badge of courage and would smile through the ache, saying, “Dad, didn’t you say the greatest happiness is when a family helps one another?”

“Grandpa and Mom need our help. I won’t eat King's Fried Chicken anymore.”

The King's Fried Chicken he hadn’t touched in five years.

The amusement park he never stepped foot in.

To Amara, were those just things we were meant to lose?

My son and I had been nothing more than pawns in her petty war with Laurence.

In this cruel game where I had traded heart for heart, it turned out that only my son and I had lost everything.

If that was the case, then we no longer needed her.

I wiped away the tears clinging to my lashes and pushed open the hospital room door.

The moment my son saw the chicken sandwiches I had brought, his face lit up with a bright smile.

But that joy lasted only seconds; just two bites in, his expression twisted in pain and he suddenly began to retch.

At first, I thought he had burned his mouth, but he weakly waved his tiny hand.

“Dad, I think I’m still sick. I feel nauseous and my stomach hurts.”

I quickly tucked the blanket tighter around him and turned to get the doctor.

But as I stepped into the pediatric wing, what I saw froze me in place.

Amara and Laurence were rushing in, faces pale with panic.

And trailing behind them was her father, supposedly long dead.

The three of them looked visibly shaken. Amara’s voice trembled as she clutched the doctor’s arm.

“Doctor, please, you have to save my son! He’s only five! How could he have such a disease?!”

I stood frozen as she brushed past me without a glance like I was nothing more than thin air.

The three of them stormed into a luxury VIP ward, dragging doctors along in a flurry of panic and urgency.

I returned to my son’s room in a daze. He gave me a fragile smile, trying to soothe my aching heart.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be better tomorrow!”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and gently touched his forehead; thankfully, the fever had faded.

“Okay. Then close your eyes now. Daddy’s staying right here with you.”

But barely moments after he drifted off to sleep, the door burst open with a loud bang.

“Our President Lancaster is offering a high reward to anyone at the hospital willing to take a bone marrow match test! Anyone who participates will be generously compensated!”

Worried the noise would wake my son, I shot the man a glare and pushed him out into the hallway.

There stood a man in a crisp suit; he had the polished air of Amara’s assistant.

He spoke in a hurry, voice breathless with urgency.

Amara and Laurence’s son had suddenly been diagnosed with acute leukemia.

They were pouring in money and calling in favors, desperately urging everyone in the hospital to join the bone marrow testing, hoping to find a match before time ran out.

The entire hospital was buzzing with activity and patients and families were all stirred up.

Word spread quickly that simply taking the test would earn fifty thousand dollars and everyone jumped at the chance to volunteer.

Amara even dangled a sky-high offer: five million for a matching donor.

For everyone else, it was a golden opportunity: save a life and get rich.

But I simply shook my head.

“My son’s health has always been fragile. He won’t be participating.”

Besides, I had no obligation to help her child, her son, with Laurence.

She could go to such lengths for theirs, yet she couldn’t even spare a thought for the child lying sick in a hospital bed, my son.

The thought of how we had scraped by, living humbly with barely enough to get by, made my chest ache.

Amara, perhaps this was heaven’s way of punishing you for your lies and cruelty.

The assistant’s face darkened, clearly not expecting my refusal. His eyes shifted, growing cold and threatening.

“Don’t refuse a toast only to drink a forfeit. You’re just a pathetic delivery guy. Offend President Lancaster and we’ll make sure you can’t survive in this city.”

With that, he gave a signal to the two bodyguards behind him.

They grabbed me and forced me toward the examination room.

Even my unconscious son was carried out against his will.

My eyes burned with rage as I struggled to save him, but pain suddenly exploded in the back of my leg.

The assistant had kicked the hollow of my knee and I collapsed to the floor.

He yanked my hair and sneered coldly.

“You and your bastard son, how could your lives ever compare to President Lancaster’s beloved husband and child?”