The Luck Thieves

For a decade, my world had been measured in laundry cycles, grocery lists, and the ever-growing pile of dishes in the sink.

I was elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing the remnants of another family meal, when it happened. A sudden, silent cascade of text flickered at the edge of my vision, like subtitles for a movie only I could see:

[Gosh, the heroine is so tragic. Her husband's entire family has been feeding on her luck like parasites!]

[Her husband stole her graduate school admission and her career!]

[The in-laws are literally siphoning her health away. No wonder she's always sick.]

[And the sister-in-law took her "romance" stat! No wonder her love life is a desert.]

[Heads up! Her husband's about to give her another "gift." Let's see how much more he takes from her this time.]

My hands, clutching a greasy plate, froze.

Right on cue, my husband, Tristan, sauntered into the kitchen. A smug, self-satisfied smile was plastered on his face as he took my wet hand. He slid a flimsy, garishly colored plastic bracelet onto my wrist.

"Look what I got for you, sweetheart," he announced, his voice dripping with pride. "I made a special trip after work. Found it at the dollar store. It's romantic and economical, just like you always say you want. You love it, don't you?"

I had been a housewife for ten years.

Tristan Gaffor touched my wrist. In the window's reflection, I saw the calculation in his eyes. "The company's announcing management promotions tomorrow. Honey, do you think I'll get it?"

I was still dazed by the earlier barrage of on-screen comments.

"What are you spacing out for? Say something."

The comments flashed again.

[If she says "yes," they'll siphon her luck again.]

[Of course, she'll answer. She always obeys in this house.]

I stayed silent. Suddenly, Tristan's grip on my wrist tightened, his fingers a vise grinding the bone.

"Honey. Say something." His voice was strained.

The cheap plastic bracelet on my right wrist began to burn as if it were on fire.

"I… I think my period just started," I stammered.

I bolted for the bathroom. Tristan followed, unrelenting. He stood outside the door, calling over and over, "Honey, tell me, will I get it or not?"

I shouted back through the door, forcing my voice steady. "Yes! You'll definitely get it!"

Hearing this, Tristan brightened like a man who'd won the jackpot. "If you're not feeling well tonight, I won't bother you. I'll go stay at my brother's." He sounded almost delighted.

I watched the plastic bracelet swirl in the toilet bowl. The on-screen comments raced across my vision.

[She actually flushed the bracelet? She always treasured her husband's gifts!]

[Does she finally realize he's been hurting her?]

[Or does she know he's been cheating?]

…

In that moment, the barrage's words felt unbearably true. Reading them, my heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

The people in my living room were my family, or so I'd once believed. Their betrayal cut deeper than any stranger's blade.

[From the start, the whole family was in on it.]

[She should have gone to grad school, then for her doctorate, met an equal, started a company…]

[If only she'd known—they wouldn't have siphoned her luck piece by piece.]

Through the commentary, I learned everything—the truth and the ending they had written for me. I was going to die.

I was an orphan. In university, I'd met Tristan, who seemed honest and dependable. His parents had treated me like their own daughter, doting and proud. But it was all a façade. I had been chosen—selected.

Tristan's father, George, possessed an old family secret, a method for borrowing another's fortune. Over generations, it had faded; now, it only worked on members of their own household.

George had identified my innate good fortune and told Tristan to marry me quickly—making me their kin, and their resource.

I had studied relentlessly for my postgraduate exams, but in the end, it was Tristan—who hadn't cracked a book—who was accepted into my top-choice program.

No matter how ill his parents were, they'd recover by morning; I, meanwhile, was plagued by chronic ailments, the kind you'd expect in someone twice my age.

I exercised; I ate balanced meals; yet my weight climbed toward two hundred pounds. Meanwhile, my sister-in-law, who lived on fried chicken and soda, stayed graceful and started dating a wealthy heir.

According to the story's end, I would lose every last scrap of my siphoned luck, be diagnosed with cancer, and then be hit by a delivery truck while crossing the street.

I splashed my face with cold water again and again, trying to drown the panic smothering me. Thank God I'd seen those comments. I could not let them keep stealing my fate.

If they weren't going to be sincere with me, then they would pay.

I pressed the flush. That worthless piece of plastic—the symbol of Tristan's promotion and his cheap, performative affection—swirled down, destined for the same place as his career advancement.

Let the garbage go to hell, right along with his promotion.