My Son Died, My Wife Knelt for Forgiveness

In the fifth year of our marriage, I worked day and night without rest to pay off the debt my wife incurred from a failed investment and to treat our son's illness.

I carried bricks on construction sites, ran deliveries and even sold a kidney on the black market.

Just off the operating table at a shady clinic, I rushed to work at the car wash.

My coworker clicked his tongue at the Rolls-Royce. "Be extra careful with this luxury car. It's a gift from Mrs. Simmons to her fiancé. That man is really lucky. I heard that for his birthday, Mrs. Simmons gave him a villa."

I held the water gun, my eyes filled with rage, staring at the couple’s photo hanging inside the car and the liquid on the seat.

The "Mrs. Simmons" he mentioned, the woman smiling sweetly in the photo, was my bankrupt wife.

——

My son was critically ill with a congenital heart disease and the doctor urgently informed me that there was a matching heart available in the hospital.

With tears streaming down my face, I begged them to give me some time to gather the money and sign the papers.

But my bank card was with my wife.

Left with no choice, I called my wife, Raquel Simmons and asked her to bring it to the hospital.

She hung up on me ninety-nine times.

On the hundredth call, she finally answered, but what I heard was her moaning breathily, her voice filled with impatience as she scolded, “Yoshi, I’m busy looking for investors right now. Can you stop causing trouble?”

Before I could explain, she hung up again.

Utterly helpless, I clenched a small card I found on a street utility pole. It was advertising kidney selling.

Staggering out of the shady clinic, I ignored the still-bleeding wound and ran straight to the hospital.

Only after signing the surgical consent form did I finally feel a sense of relief.

My son looked at me with reddened eyes and said, “Dad, is my illness really hard to treat? Please don’t spend any more money on me…”

I gently stroked his thin little face and said softly, “Luke, don’t worry. Daddy’s already got the money. After your surgery tomorrow, you’ll be on the road to recovery!”

Thinking about my wife’s debts and the cost of post-op medication and care for my son, I gritted my teeth and went back to work at the car wash, despite the searing pain from my wound.

I earn seven dollars for each car I wash. It was enough, maybe, to buy some chicken soup tonight to nourish my wife and son.

Owners of luxury cars were usually generous.

Right before I opened the door, I was still happily thinking I might earn a little extra in tips.

But the moment I saw the crystal-studded couple photo inside the car, it felt like I’d fallen into an icy abyss.

In the photo, Raquel was wearing an elegant gown, a pricey Rolex wrapped around her wrist.

She looked nothing like the woman I remembered, barefaced, frugal to the point she wouldn’t even throw away hole-ridden socks.

Standing beside her was a handsome young man, his arm tightly around her slender waist.

It was none other than Zack Lincoln, the investor she always talked about.

My breath caught. The high-pressure water gun slipped from my hand, crashing loudly onto the ground.

With trembling fingers, I pulled out my phone. My lock screen still had a photo of me and my wife, smiling.

Could Raquel possibly have a twin sister?

But that thought was quickly dismissed.

I clearly saw the small red mole beneath her earlobe in the photo inside the car.

In that instant, it was as if all the blood in my body flowed backward. I froze on the spot, unable even to muster the courage to call and confront her.

A coworker smacked me hard on the shoulder. “Yoshi, what are you spacing out for? Mrs. Simmons’s here to pick up her car!”

I pulled my mask tighter over my face and out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Raquel’s slender figure.

She was wearing a silk dress I wouldn’t even dare touch and holding an Hermès handbag I’d only ever seen on TV.

My eyes burned red as I clenched my teeth and continued washing the car.

While cleaning the back seat, I found a pair of black stockings and a few used, stained condoms wedged in the crevice.

Suppressing the pain stabbing through my chest, I tossed the trash aside.

My coworker let out a lewd chuckle and leaned in, whispering with a smirk, “Rich folks really know how to have fun. Just look at Mrs. Simmons’s killer body, she must be a real treat in bed.”