Chapter 1
On Simon Scott's birthday, my mom picked up a lucky charm for him from a roadside night-market stand. It was three dollars, a small copper-colored four-leaf clover dangling from a piece of string.
She even wrapped it carefully in the cloth, saying, "The vendor told me it had been blessed by the church and would keep its wearer safe."
When Simon received the gift, my dad used his hands that had lost two fingers to an accident to fasten it around Simon's neck, his movements unsteady.
Simon claimed his family had gone under. He had no parents, no home, and nowhere to belong. For years, my parents had treated him like their own son.
But I learned the truth one night.
I brought Simon dinner. The office door was cracked open, and the sound of laughter drifted out as his friends lounged around inside.
"A three-dollar lucky charm?"
"Simon, your fiancée's family is really scraping the bottom of the barrel."
Another guy laughed nastily, "I've seen her dad. Missing two fingers, his hands looked like chicken feet. If I ran into that at midnight, I wouldn't sleep for a week."
Simon sat in the middle of the couch, silent.
Curled against his shoulder, Vivian York scooped up her dog. "This piece of junk would work great as a dog collar."
Before anyone could respond, she looped the lucky charm around the dog's neck.
Tilting her head, she looked at Simon. "Feeling better now?"
Simon gave a quiet laugh and lit a cigarette, "A little. Her dad made such a fuss over a scholarship slot back then that you got written up by the school. He has spent his whole life preaching fairness. Guess that righteous attitude got his fingers crushed off."
I stood outside the door for a long time. Long enough for the meal in my hands to lose all its warmth.
The laughter inside carried on.
Then someone asked out of nowhere, "But Simon, are you actually going to marry her?"
Vivian lightly smacked his arm. "Simon, if you're going to put on an act, don't get so deep into character that you forget it's fake."
The room went quiet for a beat, then Simon snorted, "You're reading too much into it."
He tapped ash from his cigarette, being totally at ease. "I was bored, so I played along. The day we register the marriage, I'll tell her everything myself."
I stood outside the door, feeling the chill crawl from my fingertips straight into my chest.
So that was what all our sacrifices amounted to in his eyes.
For years, my father had sneaked out after midnight to collect scrap and recyclables, scraping together money to plug Simon's financial holes. My mother had put off her own surgery and handed him the savings so he could rebuild his business. I had given up my chance to study overseas, cashed it out, stayed local, and worked to help clear his debts.
And to Simon, it was all just entertainment.
A burst of laughter came from inside. "Simon, that's ruthless. Then again, with a family that broke, she was never good enough for you. And her dad's hands? Makes me sick just looking at it."
For the first time, Simon knitted his brows. My heart clenched. Absurdly, a part of me still hoped he would stand up for my father.
Instead, he answered flatly, "Enough already. Quit talking about it. It's indeed gross."
I had no idea how I got home. When I finally snapped back to reality, I was standing outside our tiny rental apartment.
As soon as I opened the door, my mother poked her head out of the kitchen.
"You're home. Where's Simon?"
I looked at her, and Vivian's voice rang through my head again.
"This piece of junk would work great as a dog collar."
My stomach turned instantly. I bolted to the bathroom and vomited until the room spun around me.
My mother was terrified. She hurried after me, nearly stumbling, and rubbed my back.
"What happened, Nora? Is your stomach acting up again?"
Her face had drained of color. She tried to grab a tissue but fumbled with the box, then awkwardly wiped my mouth with the cuff of her sleeve instead.
My eyes stung at once. My mother was the kind of person who returned every ounce of kindness tenfold.
The year Simon moved in, I once found her sitting alone in the kitchen late at night. Wearing her reading glasses beneath the dim light, she carefully smoothed out wrinkled bills one by one.
Her eyes were red when she finally said to my father, "We're still $2,000 short for Simon's debt payment next month."
My father had just gotten back from the junkyard. The scarred stump of his right hand had split open again, blood seeping through the worn skin. His hand trembled so badly he could barely hold a fork.
Keeping his head down, he shoveled a mouthful of vegetable into his mouth. "I'll check with Sam again tomorrow about that night security job," he said softly.
My mother was still patting my back.
"Did you and Simon argue?" she asked in a low voice. "The debt collectors have been riding him hard lately. He's been stressed. Try to cut him some slack..."
Before she could finish, the sound of a key turning in the lock echoed from the front door. Every muscle in my body tensed.
Simon had come home.
