Your Millions Bought My Grave

Late-stage bone cancer. The oncologist asked if I wanted to go through with the amputation.

My breath caught in my throat. I hesitated, staring at my phone screen for what felt like an eternity, before finally sending a message to my wife, Norma.

The amputation will buy me another year. Do you want me to do it?

Just a minute before they were scheduled to wheel me into the operating room, my phone finally buzzed in my palm.

Wishing you prosperity and wealth.

It was a digital red envelope. Just like every single response she had sent to my messages over the past three years.

I stared at the screen, letting the silence of the pre-op room swallow me.

Ever since our wedding night, when I desperately begged her to lend me fifty thousand dollars, Norma had been convinced I was exactly what her wealthy friends called me: a parasitic gold-digger.

So, when I was hospitalized with severe internal injuries from pulling her out of a car wreck, she sent me a cash transfer.

When I begged her to attend my fathers funeral, she sent me a cash transfer.

Six months ago, I was diagnosed with the same hereditary bone cancer that took my father. In the near future, I knew I would end up just like himconfined to a sterile hospital bed, hooked up to a dozen tubes, slowly rotting away.

Terrified and breaking down, I had sent her ninety-seven long, weeping voice notes.

I received ninety-seven digital red envelopes in return.

And now, facing the prospect of losing my leg just to drag out this agonizing survival, Norma was busy. She was over at her childhood best friend Glenns apartment, helping him assemble a fuse-bead art piece.

Staring at their cozy Instagram storiesthe warm lighting, the soft laughter, the flood of congratulatory comments from mutual friendsI smiled bitterly and pulled the IV needle out of my vein.

Norma had once told me, her voice dripping with absolute venom: Marrying a useless parasite like you is the single biggest regret of my life.

If that was true... then this time, Norma, I hope you can live the rest of your life without any regrets.

The needle came out with a small bead of dark blood.

The nurse rushed over, pressing a cotton ball onto the puncture site, her face pale with panic. "What are you doing! Press down on this!"

I only offered her a quiet, tired smile. "Could you please tell Dr. Evans to cancel the surgery?"

The oncologist was summoned quickly. He stood by my bed, staring at me in heavy silence for a long time, before finally writing a prescription for high-dose painkillers and letting me discharge myself.

As I walked out of the ward, I heard the nurses hushed, frantic voice pleading with him in the hallway.

"Dr. Evans, this is his life! If he doesn't get the amputation, the cancer will metastasize to his spine. He won't even survive a week!"

A week.

I didn't realize my release would come so quickly.

The doctor sighed, his voice heavy with a profound sadness. "You know his father died in this exact bed, from the exact same disease."

My footsteps faltered in the corridor.

"He's been coming here alone for chemotherapy for a year," the doctor continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "While other patients have family members staying overnight, feeding them, wiping them down... he just curls up on the mattress, shaking in pain, pressing the call button himself. His wife hasn't shown up once. Once, when he called her in the middle of the night, some other man answered."

He paused. "Maybe its just his fate."

I gripped the paper prescription slip in my hand, my nails digging deep into my palm.

Yes. Maybe it was just fate.

Just like when my dad was diagnosed. He had held my hand, his body racked with agonizing pain, yet he still managed to smile. Don't be scared, son. Dad can fight this. In the end, he drew his last breath right in my arms.

And just like when I had swallowed my pride on our wedding night, begging Norma for fifty thousand dollars to pay for his emergency surgery. I still remember the look of utter disgust and betrayal in her eyes.

Luke, is that all I am to you? An ATM?

My parents, my friends, even Glennthey all warned me you were a fraud. But I didn't believe them. I ruined my own reputation, tore up my family's contracts, let everyone in our circle mock me, all because I was determined to marry you.

Her voice had been raspy, her eyes bloodshot.

Stunned by her reaction, I had stammered, No, Norma, please listen to me. My dad... hes really sick...

Today is our wedding day, she cut me off, tearing her lace veil from her hair and throwing it to the floor. Did you really have to show your true colors today?

Norma, I swear I'll find a way to pay you back! Actually, forget it. I won't borrow it from you. I'll figure it out myself. Please, just don't be angry.

She threw her credit card hard against my face, the plastic edge drawing a thin line of blood on my cheek. Her lips curled into a cold, stiff sneer. Once a dog gets its teeth into a piece of meat, does it ever let go? Stop acting, Luke. You really are the gold-digging trash they all said you were.

She slammed the door and left.

That was our wedding night. I sat on the living room floor, waiting until four in the morning, only for Glenn to bring her back. She was blackout drunk, leaning half her weight against him, her head tucked into his shoulder. The dark red marks on her neck were stark and glaring under the foyer light.

Glenn gave me a smug, innocent smile. Hey, brother-in-law. Normas safe with me. Go get some sleep.

I was too young then, too paralyzed by grief and confusion to know what to do. I felt the blood rush to my head, hot and suffocating. Terrified of fueling her misunderstandings further, I never touched her credit card again.

The fifty thousand dollars was eventually "lent" to me by one of her wealthy socialite friends, on the condition that I accompany her to a private club. I was forced to drink until my stomach bled that night. When Norma came to pick me up at dawn, her face was livid.

She didn't say a single word on the drive back. The moment we stepped inside our apartment, her anger exploded.

Do you have any idea what would have happened to you if Id been any later? Is money really that important to you?

Why don't you just put a price tag on yourself and work at a host club? At least then you'd stop embarrassing me.

The humiliation in that car tore my dignity to shreds. My stomach was burning, but my heart was freezing.

From that day on, "leech" and "gold-digger" became labels I could never peel off. Her friends mocked me openly at dinners, and she never defended me; sometimes, she even laughed along.

And yet, my father didn't make it.

On the day he passed, I called Norma in a state of absolute hysteria, my words slurred with tears. She was in a board meeting and hung up on me. I sent countless voice messages, pleading, explaining, pouring my soul out. Hours later, she sent a cash transfer.

Wishing you prosperity.

I stared at the $888 transfer on the screen, my hands shaking uncontrollably, my soul turning to ash.

After that, Norma and I became husband and wife by law, but complete strangers in life. She stopped replying to my messages entirely, using those sterile cash transfers to remind me, over and over, of what a shameless parasite I was.

But strangely, she never brought up divorce.

I picked up my medicine from the pharmacy and returned to a freezing, silent house. The pain in my leg was growing vicious, like rusted needles driving deep into my bones, tearing through the flesh. With trembling hands, I swallowed the painkillers, along with two sleeping pills.

The drugs took hold quickly. In my hazy vision, I looked up at the massive wedding portrait hanging on the wall. Norma was laughing so brightly, her eyes reflecting the sunlight and me. That was when we loved each other most.

She had cupped my face back then, kissing me gently. Husband, Ill love you forever.

Forever. What a cheap lie.

My fingers shaking, I typed into the chat box: Norma, if I died, would you be sad?

I hit send.

Almost instantly, the phone buzzed. A red transfer popped up.

Wishing you prosperity.

I stared at that transfer for a long, long time. Then, I suddenly clamped my hand over my mouth, rushed to the bathroom, and dry-heaved into the toilet. Nothing came out. The drugs were dragging me down, heavy and suffocating.

I collapsed onto the bed, my vision blurring into abstract shapes. In the dark, I thought I saw twenty-year-old Norma walking toward me, burying her face shyly in my chest. Hey, silly. When are you finally going to propose to me?

I smiled, stretching out my hand to reach her. I wanted to say yes, let's do it. But my tears fell first.

Let it be. It would be better if I never woke up. At least in my dreams, Norma wouldn't look at me with that cold disgust, telling me that marrying me was the biggest mistake of her life.

When I finally woke up, it was the morning of the third day. I reached weakly for my phone on the nightstand. I had slept for over twenty-four hours. Aside from a few app notifications, there was nothing. No missed calls from Norma. No texts. Our chat history ended on that red transfer, a silent, mocking sneer.

I opened her social media. Ten minutes ago, she had posted a grid of nine photos.

She was still at Glenns apartment. Under a warm, amber light, the floor was covered in colorful fuse beads. Norma sat on the rug, holding a pair of tweezers, her profile looking incredibly focused and tender.

Her caption read: Someones OCD demanded we finish this tonight. Pulling an all-nighter to assist.

Below was a string of comments from mutual friends:

Wow, the PDA is real.

Since when did Norma have this much patience? Glenn really knows how to tame her.

You two need to hurry up and get married already.

This is what real love looks like.

If Glenn mentioned offhand that fuse beads seemed fun, Norma remembered. She bought all the tools and spent night after night with him. If Glenn wanted to go to a bar at midnight, she would drive across the city to accompany him. When Glenn caught a cold, she walked away from a multi-million-dollar contract just to sit by his bedside all night.

Sifting through her feed was like reading a love journal. But this thick journal had once belonged to me. The twenty-year-old Norma would have crossed oceans for nineteen-year-old Luke.

I swiped through the pictures. Somewhere along the line, the wedding band on her ring finger had vanished.

I couldn't look anymore. I put the phone down, feeling completely hollow.

The medicine was wearing off. My throat was parched, but the agony in my leg kept me pinned to the mattress.

When Normas call finally came, the painkillers had barely managed to blunt the latest wave of white-hot agony. Her voice was as cold and arrogant as ever.

Dinner at the estate tonight.

I remained quiet for a long moment before answering. I dont feel well.

She let out a soft, mocking laugh. Last time it was your leg, what is it this time? How much do you need? Luke, unless your legs are literally broken, get your ass over here. Dont forget your place.

The line went dead.

I wanted to laugh. Maybe I really should have let them amputate my leg.

Pushing myself up from the edge of the bed, I noticed dark, dried blood on the sheets. I stared at it for a few seconds, then silently swallowed a double dose of pills, changed my clothes, and went to face her.

The Crawford estate was filled with laughter. Glenn sat next to Norma's mother, Catherine, dressed in a tailored suit, occupying the seat meant for the man of the house. As I walked in, he was feeding her a slice of orange, making the older woman laugh warmly. Norma sat on the adjacent single sofa, her head bent over her phone.

My arrival silenced the room for a fraction of a second. A maid pulled out a chair at the very far end of the long mahogany table. I sat down, separated from the head of the table by a vast, cold expanse.

The women resumed talking about jewelry and designer bags; the men discussed stocks and luxury watches. No one spoke to me. Within minutes, the deep, throbbing ache in my bones started up again.

As cold sweat began to bead on my forehead, Catherine finally noticed me at the far end of the table. She frowned.

Luke, youve been married to Norma for three years. You haven't helped her career one bit, you don't even have a real job, and all you do is hold your hand out for money. The Crawford family doesn't harbor freeloaders.

My face drained of what little color it had.

Three years ago, Glenn had crashed his car into a guardrail. To save Norma in the passenger seat, my knee had been impaled by a shard of shattered glass. But she had rushed a merely unconscious Glenn to the hospital, leaving me behind. Because I didn't receive timely medical care, my knee would fester and ache to the bone whenever it rained. I lost my job after being hospitalized for six months. But Norma never believed I was genuinely injured, because she hadn't visited me even once.

Later, when I excitedly told her I had found a stable, new job to help support us, she only looked at me with mockery. And on the night my old injury flared up so badly I couldn't sleep, I called her and messaged her repeatedly. In return, I received a barrage of cash transfers, followed by a text from Glenn: Sorry, brother-in-law, Norma is busy making me hangover soup.

That was the night I finally broke. I smashed the apartment, tore up our marriage certificate, and screamed at Norma, Why won't you answer my messages? Why do you keep sending these cash transfers? What does it mean!

She had simply smiled. Isn't this exactly what you wanted? What, is it not enough?

In sheer agony, I asked her, If you hate me so much, why did you marry me? Why won't you divorce me?

But she just laughed. Luke, youre too deep in your own act. Dont start believing your own lies.

After that night, I stopped talking.

Oh, Catherine, Norma's aunt chimed in, smiling as she glanced at Glenn. Why rely on him when you have Glenn? Glenn comes from a great family, he's incredibly capable, and hell be the real partner Norma needs in business.

Glenn lowered his head with a modest, polite smile.

Norma, however, suddenly frowned. Dont talk like that. Glenn is like a brother to me.

Oh, we know, we know. A very close brother, her aunt teased. I still have the love poems you wrote to him when you were teenagers.

I was young and foolish then

My stomach churned, the pain and humiliation rising to my throat. I couldn't bear it for another second. I stood up abruptly, my knee buckling, accidentally knocking over my porcelain plate.

It shattered on the hardwood floor with a sharp crack.

Instantly, every eye in the room turned on me with disgust.

Im sorry, I whispered, my voice trembling as I stumbled toward the door.

Luke! Norma called out, chasing me into the foyer, her face tight with anger. Can you not even walk straight now? What kind of game is this? If youre really that sick, go to a hospital. Stop throwing tantrums!

I opened my mouth, but no words came. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to say, In a few days, you'll be entirely free. But before I could speak, a louder cry from inside drowned out my weak voice.

Norma! Glenn whimpered, his voice laced with pain. I cut my hand on the broken porcelain... it hurts so bad...

Normas face paled. She spun around instantly and ran back inside. Don't touch it! Don't move, okay? Her panic was completely unshielded.

I stood on the porch, the freezing wind cutting through my thin coat. The hollow space in my chest, previously so fragile, didn't ache this time. It was just numb.

Instead of returning to our house, I went back to my fathers old, rundown apartment. My phone vibrated. It was Norma's first text message in three years:

Come back and apologize to Glenn.

I stared at it, a quiet laugh escaping my lips. The phone rang. It was her, her tone impatient. Did you hear me? Glenn said

Norma, I interrupted her, my voice barely a whisper. If I died, would you be sad?

The question that had haunted me for months was finally out in the open.

The line went silent for a few seconds. Then, her voice exploded with frustration: Are you completely losing your mind lately? Who taught you to speak in such depressing riddles? Are you even a man? If you want money, just say the word. It's not like I've ever cut you off! Get over here right now!

She hung up without giving me an answer.

But it didn't matter anymore.

I lay down on the creaky wooden bed where my father and I used to sleep when I was a boy. I pulled out an old flip phone from a rusted tin box. Inside were the messages Norma and I had sent each other when we were twenty.

Luke, I saw the class president giving you a love letter today. If you dare accept it, we are over!

Luke, when are you going to make time for me?

Luke, I miss you just a little bit today.

The excruciating pain had spread from my leg to my entire body, like a thousand claws tearing at my organs. I wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream. But I couldn't make a sound. Only a single tear slid down my cheek.

I read through all eight thousand messages, one by one. And then, I hit delete all.

Using the very last of my strength, I swallowed the remaining sleeping pills and painkillers. My eyelids grew heavy. The pain began to recede into a soft, dull hum.

For the first time in months, a genuine, peaceful smile touched my lips as I closed my eyes.

Norma. I am free. I don't hate you. I just hope that this time, you get to marry the right person.

I stared at the disconnected call, a strange, suffocating restlessness settling in my chest.

Instinctively, I opened the GPS tracking app on my phone. When we were dating, I had teased Luke into installing it, and I used to check it constantly. But ever since I realized he was a liar, I hadn't opened it once.

The red dot hovered over a dilapidated, old neighborhood. I frowned, reaching for my car keys.

Norma, Glenn called out, pulling at my sleeve, his eyes wide and pleading. You promised youd come with me to the corporate gala tonight... and my hand still hurts.

My hand paused over the keys. I looked at the small adhesive bandage on his finger, and slowly sat back down. Alright.

But throughout the entire gala, I couldn't focus. Lukes fragile, whispered voice kept echoing in my head. If I died, would you be sad? Annoyed, I loosened my collar and called my assistant, instructing him to look into Luke's recent contacts. Who was feeding him these dramatic lines?

Why did I even care? Luke was just a parasite who had sold his body and soul for my money.

I was sipping my champagne when my assistant called back.

Ms. Crawford, Mr. Evans hasn't contacted anyone except his doctors at the municipal hospital. His social circle is non-existent. His only relative was his father, who passed away three years ago.

My hand clamped hard around the glass. I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floor. People turned to look, but I didn't care. He had a father? I demanded.

Glenn had investigated him. Glenn told me Luke was an orphaned gold-digger who made a living swindling wealthy women.

Yes, Ms. Crawford. Three years ago, his father passed away from late-stage bone cancer.

My brain went entirely numb, a physical blow that left me breathless. A terrifying possibility flashed through my mind: what if he hadn't lied to me?

Bone cancer.

The word felt horribly familiar. Where had I seen it?

Then, like a bolt of lightning, I remembered the message Luke had sent me months ago.