As I was cleaning up the house, I noticed something had fallen out of the cabinet my wife always kept locked tight.

I remembered Megan's constant warnings. "That cabinet holds all our family's important records. If anything gets lost, there's no getting it back. Just leave it alone and don't touch it."

Worried something valuable might have fallen out, I rushed to pick it up. But what I found was a thick stack of remittance slips.

From forty years ago to now, every month, my wife had been sending money to the same account.

And that's when it hit me.

My wife had been lying to me. The money I'd been pouring into this family had been flowing right out, into the hands of someone else.

For forty years, my wife had been deceiving me.

I sat there, frozen on the couch, flipping through the stack of remittance slips, each one a punch to the gut as I slowly came to grips with the truth. The slips ranged from handwritten notes to printed forms, and I looked over them again and again.

What hit me was undeniable: Since the day we got married, forty years ago, my wife had been secretly sending money to some unknown account.

Finally, I found the first page in the stack.

Back in 1984, Megan Gibson and I had gotten married. The marriage was set up by our parents. We'd barely known each other for two months before tying the knot. After the wedding, she quit her job and stayed home to run the house.

I'd always been touched by her sacrifice. I promised myself I'd work hard and give her the best life I could.

Then luck struck, and I landed a job as a university lecturer. I couldn't wait to tell her, so I rushed home, all excited, and handed her an envelope.

The envelope, still warm from my pocket, held twenty dollars—the first money I'd earned for our little family.

"Megan, it's not much, but it's all I have. Use it to buy what we need for the house. I don't want you to go without," I told her.

She looked at me, her eyes brimming with tears.

I was just a poor scholar back then, rich in knowledge but poor in cash. When she married me, we didn't even have a proper dining table. We had to push two chairs together to eat.

I always felt like I owed her so much. The moment I got my first paycheck, I told her to buy furniture, so she wouldn't feel embarrassed when her family visited.

But she wouldn't spend it on herself. Instead, she bought me a suit.

When she handed it to me, I could hardly hold back my tears.

"It's the latest style from the department store," she said.

I wore it to work with pride. A colleague made a comment that it was a knockoff, but I brushed it off. I figured they were just jealous.

What I didn't know was that the first time I handed my salary to Megan, she'd already sent most of it to that mysterious account.

To cover her tracks, she'd bought the suit for less than two dollars from a street vendor.

Turns out, from the very beginning, there was always someone else in our marriage. The forty years I thought I'd spent building something real with her were nothing more than a cruel joke made up of lies.

I couldn't stop torturing myself, flipping through those remittance slips until one caught my eye. It had a handwritten note on it:

"To help him become a millionaire, keep working hard!"

It was from August 1989. Our son, Tommy Chandler had just been born.

At the time, Megan had apologized, saying she'd foolishly followed bad advice and lost all our money in a failed investment. We'd had two thousand dollars saved up the previous month, but now we were down to just two hundred.

She couldn't produce enough milk, and our son was often hungry and crying. I had to feed him porridge, and he turned pale and malnourished. We couldn't even afford a two-dollar can of formula.

When I suggested she get a part-time job, she snapped at me for the first time.

"Why can't he eat this? Back in my day, we didn't have formula and we got by just fine! And don't forget—it was your decision for me to quit my job and stay home in the first place!"

Beside the October remittance for that year, another handwritten note appeared:

"He became the first millionaire in town. He looks even more handsome now."

To help him reach his millionaire dream, our son nearly starved to death.

But who was he?

My gaze turned to the cabinet that Megan had always forbidden me to touch. My hands were shaking as I opened it.

Inside was a framed photo, carefully preserved.

It was a picture of Megan with her first love.

The photograph captured the both of them smiling sweetly, their heads tilted toward each other in an unmistakable display of intimacy.

On the back, their names were inscribed in neat handwriting: Megan Gibson and Zack Taylor.

Beside Zack's name, there was a poetic note in the same familiar handwriting: "No one compares to you."

Beneath the photo, a small line of red print caught my eye:

—Victoria Photo Studio.

That was the first photography studio in our town. I had once suggested taking a family portrait there with Megan and our son, only to be chastised in the middle of the street.

"Do you know how expensive one photograph is? That money could buy enough meat to feed our son for days!" she had snapped.

I never brought it up again.

Now I understood why she had already known the price of a photograph without asking. She had gone there before—just not with me.

As I examined the photo, my eyes were drawn to the suit she wore in it. It was one of those premium pieces from the city's department store. It dawned on me then: she had bought the genuine article, just not for me. She saved the real thing for this photo, for him.

Every detail in that photo screamed of significance, of care, of something far beyond the mundane routine of our marriage.

Tears slid silently down my face, tracing the lines age had carved into my skin. They tasted bitter, a reflection of my marriage.

The door creaked open behind me, breaking my reverie.

Megan walked in and froze. Her eyes locked onto the frame in my hands. In an instant, she was across the room, shoving me hard enough to knock me to the floor, showing no concern for my sixty-five-year-old body.

"Sam, how dare you touch my things!" she hissed, her voice trembling with a fury that felt strangely familiar.

I didn't respond to her accusations. My mind was too preoccupied with the faint scent that clung to her clothes—the unmistakable aroma of old-fashioned hand-rolled cigarettes.

The smell triggered a long-buried memory.

When I was twenty-eight, I used to sell poem and calligraphy pieces to make ends meet. My talent had earned me a small reputation, and one of the local shop owners, Michael Leighton, had given me a box of hand-rolled cigarettes as a gift.

Excited, I brought it home to show Megan.

"Do you know how much money you've just wasted?" she had shouted, her anger reducing me to a stammering mess.

I tried to explain it had been a gift, but her fury left no room for reason. "You're not a child anymore, buying whatever catches your fancy. You're my husband now, and you have responsibilities!"

That night, I swore never to "waste money" again, even on gifts. The cigarettes remained in the house, untouched—by me, at least.

Over the years, I would occasionally catch the scent of them on Megan, mingled with her perfume. I always thought it odd but had dismissed it. Now, the realization hit me like a thunderclap.

How could the smell of those cigarettes have lingered for decades? It couldn't.

Each time I smelled it, it wasn't a memory—it was evidence. Evidence that Megan had been meeting him.

"Do you remember the box of cigarettes Michael gave me?" I asked, my voice breaking the silence.

Her expression flickered, her fury faltering for a split second. "What cigarettes? You've never smoked a day in your life! I told you back then that a scholar should smell of books, not smoke!"

I sat on the ground, and Megan looked down at me from above.

It was then I realized that perhaps, in her eyes, I had always appeared this way: a groveling, spineless figure, a sycophant reeking of ink, serving as nothing more than her personal cash dispenser.

"You smell of them now," I said.

That was when she exploded. "You think women don't pick up a bit of cigarette smell here and there? I go to the gambling parlor! The men there are always puffing away. What, are you going to start some crusade against them now?"

For years, I had deferred to her, grateful for the life she had given me, for the son we raised together. But now, looking at her, I felt nothing but revulsion.

When our son and daughter-in-law heard about our fight, they came to take us out for dinner, hoping to smooth things over.

"Dad, you're being unreasonable," Tommy said, his tone patronizing. "We're doing well enough now. There's no need to dwell on the past. Come on, let's eat."

I looked at Tommy—this son of mine whom I had raised on watered-down porridge and a mother's indifference. Did he know that when he was barely a year old, his mother had nearly starved him to death in her obsession with making Zack a millionaire?

The boy I had fed with my own hands now stood before me, a stranger in every way that mattered.

"I'm not going," I muttered, turning away.

"Why's the old man acting like such a child?" Tommy grumbled as he left, slamming the door behind him.

The house was quiet again, and I was all alone.

My heart felt a pang of bitterness as my eyes fell upon Tommy's bag, left behind on the sofa.

Recalling that the restaurant they'd mentioned wasn't far, I quickly slipped on my shoes, worried he might lack money to settle the bill, and hurried downstairs to deliver it.

When I arrived at the restaurant, just as I was about to step inside, the scene through the glass window froze me in my tracks.

There they were—my son, his wife, my wife. And, seated among them as if he belonged, my wife's first love.

The four of them sat together, laughing and chatting with a warmth I could hardly remember being a part of, like they were the real family and I was a forgotten shadow.

Swallowing my anger, I walked in and handed the bag to Tommy. "You left your bag behind. I was afraid you wouldn't have money to pay."

He crossed his arms, his tone sharp. "Weren't you not coming?"

His words stung, but I masked my pain, turned to leave, and was halfway out when I heard his sneering voice behind me. "Not gonna give me the bag? So I'll be stuck without money to pay?"

He laughed coldly and added, "These days, everyone uses mobile payment. You should catch up with the times already."

The weight of his words settled over me. It was a cruel reminder of how far behind the world I'd fallen.

Standing there, paralyzed by the feeling of being obsolete, I didn't know how to respond.

It was then that Zack, my wife's old flame, stepped in smoothly, his tone conciliatory. "Come on, Tommy, don't say that about your dad. I'll cover the bill today. Now then, Sam, join us for dinner."

My daughter-in-law, Angeline Heide chimed in, urging, "That's right, Dad, at least sit and eat a little."

But Tommy wasn't finished with his cutting remarks. "Dad, take a lesson from Zack, will you? Look at what you're wearing, and look at him."

I glanced at Zack, dressed impeccably in a perfectly tailored suit, every seam hugging his frame. By contrast, I was clad in a loose, sweat-stained undershirt and worn-out trousers.

His hands were smooth and refined, while mine bore the rough scars and calluses of decades spent writing.

"I'm not hungry," I muttered, tossing the bag onto the table before walking out as fast as my legs could carry me.

Once I was out in the open air, the truth hit me like a wave. Forty years. For forty years, I had been nothing but an accessory.

I was Megan's husband and Tommy's father, but never, not even for a moment, me.

All these years, I had played roles dictated by others, dutifully donning the masks they handed me, and somewhere along the way, I had lost myself entirely.

When Megan announced she was opening a gambling parlor, I said nothing. We maintained an uneasy silence until the night before her grand opening.

I was sitting at the table, trying to figure out how to use a smartphone. She wandered in without a word and placed herself beside me.

"Sam, I've opened the shop," she said, handing me a bank card. "The profits from the gambling parlor will go into this card."

She then returned my salary card, something I hadn't seen in years.

"Sam, I promise you—I'll never do anything like that again. From now on, you keep your card; it's yours to manage."

There was a brief pause before she added, as if it were an afterthought, "But the gambling parlor will see all kinds of people coming and going. It's better if you don't show up there."

I looked up into her eyes, searching desperately for a flicker of sincerity.

All I saw was the murky cloudiness of her whites.

After Megan opened her shop, the house was empty during the day, leaving me alone.

One afternoon, a knock came at the door, and my daughter-in-law, Angeline stood there, carrying a bag of milk and fruit.

"Dad," she said, her tone apologetic, "what Tommy said yesterday was wrong. I already scolded him for it."

Then she brightened up, as if to lighten the mood. "Today, I thought I'd take you out shopping. We'll buy you some new clothes and then stop by Mom's gambling parlor. How does that sound?"

Not wanting to disappoint her thoughtful gesture, I agreed.

At the gambling parlor's entrance, she parked the car and turned to me with a smile. "Dad, you go on in. Mom will light up when she sees you like this."

I understood her intent—to give me and Megan some space—and nodded with a small smile. With that, she drove off.

As I walked along the street toward Megan's shop, I realized how long it had been since I'd ventured out on my own. Years of burying myself in books and teaching had made me forget the world outside.

"Boss lady, you're so beautiful!"

The boisterous shout jolted me from my thoughts.

Boss lady?

I could guess who they meant and quickened my steps. But before I reached the door, another voice rang out.

"Boss! Long time no see—getting more handsome every day, I see!"

I stopped in my tracks, puzzled. That couldn't be about Megan.

Turning my head slightly, I caught sight of a familiar figure at the entrance.

There stood Zack, a cigarette in hand, chatting with the customers like an old pro.

The ease in his demeanor, the camaraderie in his words—it was the kind of familiarity that only years of closeness could build.

Then I heard the voice I knew so well, the one I'd shared a life with, speaking from inside the shop.

"Of course! With a boss this handsome, how could I not be proud? You guys should stop by more often—we're practically old friends now!"

Her words struck like a blow.

"Are you all right, sir?" a passerby asked, their concerned voice breaking through the haze in my mind.

I must have looked as bad as I felt. I asked the kind stranger to help me to a nearby cafe nearby where I could sit and catch my breath.

The boss and the boss lady…

So this was why Megan didn't want me at the gambling parlor.

How many years had Zack played the role of her husband out here?

Away from my sight, how happy a pair they must have been—like the most perfect and radiant couple.

I looked down at the clothes I'd bought specifically for this visit, the newness of them now seeming utterly ridiculous.

I didn't go inside to confront her. Instead, I managed, for the first time, to use my phone's navigation app and find my way home alone.

That evening, I waited in the living room until well past midnight. Finally, the sound of the door opening reached my ears.

She entered and, seeing me still awake, frowned. "Sam, why aren't you asleep? I was hoping for you to cook breakfast tomorrow morning."

"Why so late?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay steady.

"The parlor was packed," she replied breezily. "Everyone was caught up in the good time. It's all for making money, you know!"

She came closer, and I could smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke that clung to her.

I closed my eyes, unwilling to look at her any longer. "Megan," I said quietly, "let's get a divorce."