Chapter 5

The first thing I did after getting the money was schedule a full medical checkup. I wanted to make sure I was healthy. The results would take three days to process.

After leaving the hospital, I decided to treat myself to a nice meal at a restaurant.

Originally, I wanted to order everything I’d been too frugal to buy before—all the dishes I’d only dreamed of. But my years of penny-pinching had become second nature, and in the end, I only ordered two modest dishes.

It didn’t matter, though. I had plenty of money now, and plenty of time. I could take my time savoring life’s luxuries.

As the sky darkened and the clock neared 9 p.m., I noticed my phone had ten missed calls from my mom. Finally, I stood up and started heading home.

On my way back, I stopped by a street vendor selling stir-fried noodles. I bought a box, stirred it up with my chopsticks, and threw half of it in the trash. “Forgive me,” I muttered under my breath, “but sacrifices must be made.” Then I carried the remaining half home.

When I walked in, my mom was sitting in the living room, her face stormy with anger.

The moment she saw me, she grabbed the ashtray from the table and hurled it at me, shouting furiously.

“Do you even remember you have a home? I’m starving to death here, and you’re out doing who-knows-what!”

I sidestepped the ashtray and held out the half-eaten box of noodles like a peace offering. Smiling apologetically, I said, “Sorry, Mom. My boss made me work overtime, and I couldn’t check my phone.”

“This is the dinner my boss bought me. I saved most of it for you. There’s even some meat left in there.”

Her mood flipped faster than a switch. She snatched the box from my hands, tears welling up in her eyes. “I’m such a useless mother,” she sobbed. “I can’t do anything for you. I have to rely on you to feed me. I might as well just die.”

This didn’t happen in my previous life.

But I knew this routine all too well. Four years ago, she’d pulled the same stunt to get me to quit my high-paying job in the city and move back to this small, dead-end town as a lowly office clerk.

“Mom’s getting old,” she’d said back then, crying. “I don’t know how many years I have left. I just want to spend as much time with you as I can before I go.”

Now, watching her put on the same performance, I felt a wave of wariness wash over me. But I played along, wiping my eyes dramatically.

“Mom, don’t say that. Without you, this house wouldn’t feel like home. If you weren’t here, what would be the point of my life?”

She sniffled, dabbing at her tears, and I mimicked her, sniffling even louder.

Crying? Two could play at that game.

When she finally caught her breath, she said, “Your aunt found you a potential match. I’ve already met him—he’s honest, hardworking, and a good guy. Why don’t you pick a date to get the marriage license?”

She paused to sigh deeply, her voice tinged with longing. “My biggest wish is to see you get married and have kids.”

And there it was. The real reason behind all this drama.

I knew exactly who this “match” was. A 38-year-old divorced man with two kids—one of whom was about to graduate high school. His hairline was a proud homage to the “horseshoe” look, his face looked like it had survived a warzone, and his attitude reeked of a self-proclaimed patriarch. He was a Jacktic mix of styles, leaving his overall vibe a complete mystery.

When I saw his picture for the first time, I honestly thought my aunt had found a new husband for *herself.*

And yet, my mom still had the audacity to call this guy a “good catch”?

Of course, it wasn’t about me. It was about the $20,000 dowry he’d promised her.

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