I took a taxi to the hospital, arranged all the examinations, and set the date for the surgery on the spot.

I came home late at midnight, and there was only my son at home.

He stayed up, eating fried chicken and playing games.

I asked him, "Where did your dad go?"

He pointed upstairs and continued watching cartoons.

My husband was still at Jennifer's place.

I frowned and asked, "Has he been staying upstairs all the time?"

My son impatiently replied, "You're asking it only now? You left in a fit of anger for no reason, didn't cook for us, and came home late at night. If it were me, I wouldn't want to come home, either."

I had the examination report in my hand.

As long as my son turned his head and looked at me instead of the cartoon, he would know that I was sick.

I casually put the medical record on the bedside and went upstairs to find Eric.

Just as I approached Jennifer's door, I heard heavy breathing from inside the apartment.

I knocked on the door and the inside instantly became quiet.

The peeping hole was covered by shadows.

30 seconds later later, Eric opened the door.

I saw Jennifer kneeling on the ground, her clothes not very neat. She was covered in sweat as she was tying up her messy hair.

Eric also smelled of sweat and his eyes were a bit unfocused.

Before I could speak, he scolded, "You ingrate, you still know to come back, don't you? Why don't you let our son starve to death?"

They never called me or sent a message to ask where I was.

He left our son downstairs and stayed alone with our neighbor, but shamelessly blamed me for being an ingrate.

The goody-two-shoes behind him said softly, "Don't blame your husband. He cares about his family. He stayed here to test the effectiveness of my classes all for your son."

She then asked in a sweet voice, "How do you think of my classes?"

My husband coughed twice and his tone became gentle. "Not bad. I will come tomorrow to sign up and pay."

Then, he stared at me and said, "Alright, stop embarrassing yourself! Jennifer will laugh at you. Go back home!"

In my previous life, after he signed up our son for classes, he always went upstairs, claiming to supervise our son's yoga practice.

I worked as an Uber driver, which was more tiring than his job, and I didn't earn less money than him.

But he still saw me as a full-time housewife, and he didn't take care of any chores when he came back.