The next morning, Marcos came out of the bedroom expecting to smell the fried dumplings he had asked for the night before.

There was nothing.

I was already putting on my shoes.

“What about breakfast?”

“I’m running late.”

“Didn’t you say you’d make dumplings?”

I picked up my bag and looked at him.

“You can buy some downstairs.”

Marcos frowned, but said nothing.

That morning, I ate breakfast in the company cafeteria.

Two steamed buns.

A glass of soy milk.

At noon, I had rice, fish, vegetables, and soup.

For dinner, I ordered an extra stewed egg and packed it into a small container.

For the first time since I got married, I went an entire day without worrying about what Marcos was going to eat.

When I got home, he was sitting on the sofa.

“Where’s dinner?”

I opened my container.

“I already ate.”

“What about me?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t you eaten?”

He stared at me for several seconds.

He seemed genuinely unable to understand the question.

For years, “coming home” had meant food simply appeared in front of him.

Hot rice.

Meat.

Vegetables.

Cut fruit after dinner.

He had never asked how much any of it cost.

He had never asked who bought it.

He only knew how to sit down and eat.

Eventually, he picked up his phone and ordered delivery.

That continued for a week.

By the second week, he started complaining about the prices.

“A rice bowl with meat costs almost a hundred thousand. That’s robbery.”

I was brushing my teeth.

“Then cook.”

“With what?”

I pointed toward the kitchen.

“There’s a kitchen.”

Marcos opened the cabinets.

The rice bag was empty.

There was barely a film of oil at the bottom of the bottle.

No eggs.

No frozen meat.

No vegetables.

He looked at me in disbelief.

“You didn’t buy anything?”

“No.”

“Why?”

I rinsed my mouth.

“Because I don’t need it.”

His face hardened.

“What am I supposed to eat, then?”

“Whatever you want.”

Two days later, his next salary arrived.

That evening, I heard the bank notification from the sofa.

Marcos transferred 40.7 million dong to Gloria again.

He didn’t hesitate.

Soon afterward, the family group chat lit up.

Gloria sent a photograph.

This time, it was a brand-new sofa.

“Finally replaced that old sofa that was hurting my back.”

Then she added:

“Thank you to my son. Raising him was worth it.”

Marcos replied with a heart.

I closed the chat.

Five minutes later, he walked into the bedroom.

“Buy rice tomorrow.”

“No.”

He stopped.

“What?”

“I’m not buying rice.”

“We’re out.”

“I know.”

“Then buy some.”

I looked at him.

“You earn a salary too.”

His expression changed.

“Are we seriously going to fight over a bag of rice?”

“I’m not fighting.”

“How much can it cost? Two hundred thousand?”

“Then buy it yourself.”

Marcos opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

For some reason, he still didn’t buy it.

Maybe because spending two hundred thousand on our home hurt more than sending forty million to his mother’s.

The second month was worse.

Marcos started coming straight home after work.

Before, he always had dinners with coworkers, meetings, football games.

Now he walked in at seven, opened the refrigerator, and stared at the empty shelves.

One night, he found my stewed egg.

He picked it up.

“Is this yours?”

“Yes.”

He opened the container.

“I’m hungry.”

I held out my hand.

“Then order food.”

Marcos held the egg for several seconds.

Finally, he put it back.

“You’ve become impossible lately.”

I didn’t answer.

That weekend, Gloria called him on video.

Marcos answered while I was sitting nearby.

The camera showed a renovated living room.

New sofa.

Huge television.

Double-door refrigerator.

There was even a massage chair in one corner.

“Son,” Gloria said, “your cousin is getting married. Your father and I can’t attend wearing old clothes. Send me another five million.”

Marcos instinctively lowered the volume.

I pretended not to hear.

“Mom, I already sent you more than forty million this month.”

“So what? Are you keeping accounts with me now?”

“That’s not what I mean…”

Gloria sighed.

“When you were little, I went without food so you could eat meat.”

That sentence worked like it always did.

Marcos lowered his head.

“Fine.”

Transfer successful.

Another five million.

That same night, he borrowed two million from a coworker to pay his share of the parking fee.

I knew because I overheard the call from the bedroom.

I said nothing.

The man who earned more than forty million a month now had to borrow money just to make it to the end of the month.

At the beginning of the third month, Marcos had lost weight.

His shirts hung more loosely.

He stopped ordering delivery every night because it was “too expensive.”

He bought instant noodles.

Sometimes bread.

One evening, he tried cooking rice.

He bought the smallest bag he could find.

He poured the rice into the cooker without washing it.

Then added far too much water.

When he opened the lid, there was nothing but a white, sticky mess.

He called me from the kitchen.

“How much water are you supposed to add?”

I was reading.

“I don’t know.”

He stared at me incredulously.

“You’ve cooked rice for years.”

“Then maybe you should’ve watched.”

He threw the spoon into the cooker.

“What the hell are you trying to do?”

I finally looked up.

His face was red.

“Nothing.”

“Three months! Three months without cooking! You think this is normal?”

“I do.”

“My mother didn’t have an easy life raising me! Can’t you be a little more understanding?”

I locked my phone.

“Then tell your mother to keep raising you. Almost your entire salary goes to her anyway.”

Silence fell instantly.

Marcos stared at me as if I had slapped him.

“So all of this is about money?”

“No.”

“Of course it is!”

He stepped closer.

“You’re punishing me because I help my mother.”

“I haven’t punished you.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I stopped financing your life.”

Those words left him motionless.

I stood up.

“The mortgage comes from my account. Water comes from my account. Electricity comes from my account. Building fees come from my account. Cleaning supplies come from my account. Even gifts for your family often come from my account.”

I looked straight at him.

“You weren’t supporting this household, Marcos. You were just living in it.”

His face went pale.

“That’s not true.”

“Then tell me how much last month’s electricity bill was.”

Silence.

“The building management fee?”

Nothing.

“How much is the mortgage?”

Marcos looked away.

He didn’t know a single answer.

That night, he slept on the sofa.

Three days later, payday arrived again.

I was at the office when I received a bank notification.

The account used for the mortgage didn’t have enough money.

Marcos called immediately.

“Why isn’t there enough money in the account?”

“Because this month I only paid my half of the household expenses.”

“Your half?”

“Yes.”

His breathing became heavy.

“What about my half?”

“You pay it.”

I hung up.

That night, he didn’t come home.

Neither did he the next night.

I assumed he had gone to Gloria’s house.

Until the third night, at 11:47 p.m., someone pounded on the door.

I opened it.

Marcos was leaning against the wall.

Pale.

Sweating.

“Marcos…”

He tried to say something.

But before he could finish, his legs gave out and he collapsed at my feet.

At the emergency department, while I waited outside the treatment room, his phone began ringing inside the bag I had brought with me.

Gloria.

Once.

Twice.

Five times.

Finally, I answered.

Before I could speak, her furious voice exploded through the phone.

“Marcos, where is this month’s money? The real estate agent is waiting. If we don’t transfer the down payment for your sister’s apartment tonight, we’ll lose the reservation.”

I went completely still.

“Apartment?”

Gloria fell silent.

Only for two seconds.

Then she asked slowly:

“Who is this?”

At that moment, the emergency room door opened behind me.

The doctor stepped out holding Marcos’s medical chart.

His expression was serious.

“Are you his wife?”

I nodded.

The doctor glanced at the phone still in my hand.

Then he said:

“There’s something you need to know about your husband’s condition… and from what I can see, he’s probably been hiding it from you for months.”