Three years in a food truck, burns on my hands while my hushand bought his mistress VIP memberships everywhere.


    It all started when doctors said my daughter wouldn’t live past six..


    To save for her surgery, I always ran my food truck until midnight, hands scarred from burns. I’d also wash dishes at restaurants until I could barely stand.


    One day, the deep fryer tipped over. I still clutched my savings book tight–my daughter’s lifeline–causing me in severe burns.


    Yet, the moment I rushed to the hospital through the pain, only to find my husband signing a check.


    “Thanks for the act, everyone. Here’s another three million.”


    A woman wiped my daughter’s hands, sneering: “Mr. ke, she can’t eat this street trash. It’s pure grease!”


    Serena Mitchell–the viral influencer I’d seen everywhere. <fn6201> Official source is find{n}ovel</fn6201>


    My five–year–old bounced on the hospital bed, batting away the pancakes I’d made at 3 AM.


    “Gross! Daddy says this makes you dumb!”


    She lunged at my husband’spanion: “Serena, take me to Disney!”


    Serena shot Daniel ke a flirtatious look as he pulled her close: “Take Susan to Disney, I’ll get you that Hermès.”


    My daughter squealed: “Serena’s so pretty–way better than stinky mommy!”


    Hearing that, I didn’t charge in or cause a mess.


    Only turned away, sold my three years‘ broken–down truck, and dialed a buried number.


    “It’s me.” I touched my burns.


    “That promise–does it still stand?”


    “I don’t want that stinky mommy! Can’t you get me a new one!” Susan shrieked. “Serena smells so good and she’s so pretty–ten thousand times better than her!“,


    Daniel ke showed no displeasure, instead lifting our daughter lovingly. “Of course, sweetheart. Daddy will give you whatever you want.”


    I stood in the hospital doorway, blood turning to ice.


    The man before me in designer clothes–where was any trace of the ordinary employee I thought I’d married?


    And my supposedly critically ill daughter was bouncing around, perfectly healthy.


    Inside the room, one of his men couldn’t help asking, “Mr. ke, you have us harass Mrs. ké at her food truck every day and lie about the kid being sick–what’s the point?”


    “She’s good enough in bed,” Daniel lit a cigar, his tone cold. “But her background’s too trashy. The ke family would never ept someone like


    her.”


    My hand gripping the doorframe began to shake.


    He paused, twisting the wedding ring on his finger–the fake one I’d bought at a street market for fifty dors.


    52 noh


    “Women like her from the sticks, once they know I have money, they’lltch on like leeches.”


    “So <b>I </b>deliberately made the surgery costs astronomical, keeping her always out of rench, always scrambling for money.”


    “Right now, she’s not worthy of being my wife,”


    I looked down at my oil stained fingernails, nearly crushing my savings book.


    So the daughter I’d been killing myself to save never needed saving at all.


    So the husband I’d loved desperately had been manipting me from the start.


    “It stinks!” My daughter threw the pancakes I’d made at dawn into the trash.


    “Daddy says eating this makes you dumb!”


    She tugged at Serena Mitchell’s hand. “Serena, take me to Disney! Please?”


    Daniel raised an eyebrow, wrapping his arm around Serena’s slim waist. “Come with us. I’ll buy you that Hermès.”


    Serena blushed as my daughter pped excitedly.


    I staggered away from the doorway, my chest burning throbbing with pain.


    The doctor examining my burns frowned in reproach: “Why didn’t youe sooner? Anyter and this would’ve been infected!”


    I bit my lip as the antiseptic hit my wounds.


    But the burns weren’t the worst pain–it was the hole my loved ones had torn in my heart.


    I dragged myself back to my food truck, where familiar faces waited.


    The lead thug flicked his cigarette, grinning as he shoved me.


    “Heydy<i>, </i>times are tight. How about lending us some cash?”