My wife and I have been struggling financially for months, cutting every expense down to the bone and living off rice, beans, and whatever was on clearance so we could keep up with the rent. She skipped lunches at work, bringing small snacks just to make groceries stretch.

Every Thursday, under the excuse of working a late overtime shift that didn't exist, I took cash from our emergency stash, drove two towns over where nobody knew me, and sat in my car in a strip-mall parking lot gorging on fast food. I’d order enough for three people—burgers, fries, shakes—and inhale it in twenty minutes until my stomach physically ached.


Afterward, I threw the bags into commercial dumpsters behind the stores, brushed my teeth with a kit I kept in the glovebox, and drove home. When I walked through the door, my wife would always have a small bowl of leftover broth or reheated rice saved for me, looking exhausted and worried about how hard I was working.


I’d sit across from her, pretending to be starving, force down every bite with a tired smile, and thank her for being such a good partner while grease was practically leaking out of my pores.