THE CARDS OF FORTUNE: THE REVENGE OF THE SCORNED SON-IN-LAW

It was 11:47 p.m.

The cold night air brushed against Ethan's sweaty face as he walked along the quiet road. His orange work vest clung to his back, damp with sweat despite the temperature. The vest had once been bright, but three years of collecting garbage had turned the color dull.

His trousers were worn around the knees.

His shoes were worse.

The soles had become so flat that he could feel every small stone beneath his feet.

Ethan shifted the weight of his tired body from one leg to the other and winced when pain shot through his lower back.

"Just a little farther," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Then I can sleep."

His stomach answered with a loud growl.

Ethan stopped walking and looked down at it with tired disbelief. "Don't start," he warned quietly, pressing one hand against his stomach. "We don't have money for your complaints tonight."

His stomach growled again.

Ethan sighed.

"Yeah, I know. I'm hungry too."

He continued walking, rubbing his palms together due to the cold. His palms were rough from years of physical work. Small cuts covered his fingers, and a fresh wound crossed the side of his left hand.

His shift had ended almost two hours ago, but he had stayed behind to help another worker finish his route.

The man had three children waiting for him at home.

Ethan had none.

So he had stayed.

Ethan lowered his head and shoved both hands into his pockets as another cold breeze slipped beneath his vest.

He was passing a small grocery store when he noticed the flickering sign above the entrance. The fluorescent letters buzzed weakly in the darkness.

OPEN.

Ethan slowed down.

His hand went into his pocket, and he pulled out his wallet, opening it beneath the streetlight.

A few crumpled bills stared back at him.

He counted them once. Then again, his expression becoming heavier.

His father needed his blood pressure medication.

His mother had also asked him to bring home rice, milk, bread, and a few vegetables.

Ethan looked through the glass doors as he mentally calculated the cost. The total cost made his lips tighten.

He could afford it, but after buying the groceries, he would have almost nothing left.

He stood there for several seconds.

Then he remembered his father's voice that morning.

"Don't forget the medicine."

His father had tried to sound casual, but Ethan had heard the worry underneath it.

He closed his wallet and rubbed his face.

"Just the essentials," he muttered, sounding as though he was trying to convince himself.

Then he pushed open the door.

A small bell jingled above him as he stepped inside.

The store was nearly empty.

A young cashier sat behind the counter, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone. He glanced at Ethan for barely a second before returning his attention to the screen.

Ethan picked up a small bag of rice.

Then some vegetables, milk, bread, and a few cans of cheap food.

He looked at the price of each item before putting it into the basket. He didn’t want to make the mistake of picking something expensive.

When he reached the counter, he placed the groceries down carefully.

The cashier finally put his phone aside and started scanning the items.

"Rice," he muttered without looking up, then scanned another item. "Milk."

Beep.

"Vegetables."

Beep.

The cashier moved his gaze from the items and stared at Ethan. "That’s Forty-eight dollars."

Ethan's hand stopped above his wallet.

"Forty-eight?" he repeated, staring at the cashier with tired disbelief.

The cashier glanced at the screen and shrugged. "That's what it comes to."

Ethan looked at the groceries.

He had checked the prices.

He knew the total should have been close.

Still, hearing the amount hurt.

Slowly, he opened his wallet and brought out some cash.

The cashier watched him count the money.

"You paying cash?" he asked, sounding slightly impatient.

Ethan nodded. "Yeah."

He counted the bills twice before placing them on the counter.

"Here."

The cashier took the money and began counting it.

Ethan reached for the grocery bags.

Then a voice behind him made him stop.

"Excuse me."

Ethan turned.

An elderly man stood at the neighboring counter.

He looked to be in his seventies. His gray hair was neatly combed, and his cream-colored shirt was tucked carefully into a pair of dark trousers. His clothes were simple but clean, and his posture still carried the quiet dignity of someone who had spent most of his life being respected.

The cashier held out a bank card.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, his tone becoming slightly impatient. "Your card was declined."

The old man frowned at the machine. "Declined?"

"Yes."

The cashier handed the card back. "Do you have another one?"

The old man nodded slowly. "I do."

He reached into his wallet and pulled out another card.

The cashier took it and inserted it into the machine.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then the machine beeped.

DECLINED

The old man's eyebrows pulled together.

"That's strange," he murmured, staring at the screen.

The cashier removed the card and handed it back. "You can try again."

The old man nodded.

"I'll try."

He inserted the card himself.

The machine processed it.

Then beeped again.

DECLINED.

The old man stared at the screen, his grey brows furrowing in confusion.

Behind him, a woman let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Oh, come on," she complained, folding her arms across her chest. "How long is this going to take?"

The old man looked over his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice carrying more embarrassment than anger.

The woman rolled her eyes. "You've already tried twice. If your cards aren't working, maybe you should just come back later."

The old man's face tightened for a moment.

But he lowered his gaze instead of answering.

"I understand," he murmured.

Ethan watched the exchange from the side, but something about it bothered him.

The cashier cleared his throat and tapped the payment machine again.

“Sir, there may be a problem with your bank account,” he explained, his tone becoming more businesslike. “You should contact your bank and find out what happened.”

The old man stared

His eyes drifted toward the groceries spread across the counter.

There were only a few things. A loaf of bread, a bottle of milk, some fruit, and three cans of food. Nothing expensive. Nothing luxurious. Just the sort of basic groceries someone bought when they were trying to get through another few days.

The old man slowly opened his wallet. “I have cash,” he said, forcing a small smile as he pulled out several worn bills.

He counted them once.

Then again.

His fingers suddenly stopped moving.

Ethan noticed the change in his expression.

It was subtle. Most people probably would have missed it, but Ethan didn't. The old man's faint confidence disappeared as he stared down at the money in his hands, counting the bills a third time as though hoping the amount would somehow change.

It didn't.

The cashier glanced at the money and shook his head. “You're eight dollars short.”

The old man stared at the bills for several seconds without saying anything. Finally, his shoulders dropped, and he gave a small, defeated nod. “I see.”

A sigh came from behind him.

“Unbelievable,” the woman muttered impatiently, glancing down at her phone.

Ethan's eyes narrowed, but the old man didn't react. Instead, he reached for the loaf of bread with slightly trembling fingers and quietly placed it back on the shelf beside the counter.

Then came the milk.

Then the fruit.

One item after another, he returned everything he had chosen.

He didn't complain. He didn't argue with the cashier or blame the bank. He simply lowered his head and put the groceries back as if he had done this many times before.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Ethan's jaw tightened.

He knew that voice.

He knew that lowered head and that expression people wore when they were desperately trying to hide their embarrassment. He knew what it meant to stand in a store and count every last dollar in your wallet, hoping the total would somehow be enough.

He had been there himself.

He had stood in stores with only a few dollars left in his pocket. He had picked something up, looked at the price, and quietly returned it to the shelf because he couldn't afford it. He had smiled afterward and pretended that he didn't care.

He knew what it felt like to stand in front of strangers while silently praying that nobody noticed you were broke.

Ethan looked down at the cheap grocery bag hanging from his own hand. Inside were his father's medicine and the food his mother needed. The few dollars remaining in his wallet were all he had left.

He couldn't afford to help this man.

Not tonight.

Not when he was already counting every dollar. His parents were waiting for him, his stomach was empty, and exhaustion weighed heavily on his body.

He should leave.

He had done enough.

Ethan took a step toward the door.

Then he stopped.

Behind him, the old man picked up the last can of food. He stared at it for a long moment before letting out a quiet breath and placing it back on the counter.

Something inside Ethan tightened.

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

“Wait.”

The old man's hand froze.

After a moment, he turned around.

Ethan walked back toward him and pulled his wallet from his pocket. “How much are you short?” he asked.

The old man frowned slightly. “Excuse me?”

“How much are you short?” Ethan repeated, nodding toward the groceries.

The old man immediately shook his head. “No.”

Ethan frowned. “No?”

“You've already bought your own things,” the old man replied gently but firmly. “You should go home.”

Ethan looked at him for a moment before glancing at the groceries. “I'm asking how much you're short.”

The old man hesitated. “Eight dollars.”

Ethan nodded. “Okay.”

The old man raised a hand. “Young man, don't.”

Ethan paused.

The old man gave him a tired smile. “You have your own problems.”

Ethan looked down at his worn shoes, then at the cheap grocery bag hanging from his hand.

“You're right,” he admitted quietly.

The old man's expression softened.

Ethan lifted his eyes to meet the man's gaze. “I do.” He pulled the remaining cash from his wallet and held it out. “But I can still spare eight dollars.”

The old man's eyes widened slightly. “No. I can't take that.”

Ethan kept his hand extended. “You're not taking it.”

The old man frowned in confusion.

Ethan gave him a tired smile. “I'm giving it.”

For a moment, the old man simply stared at him.

“Why?” he finally asked.

The question was so quiet that Ethan almost missed it.

He studied the man's face. The embarrassment was still there, but now there was something else beneath it. Confusion. Perhaps even disbelief that a stranger would bother helping him.

Ethan shrugged. “Because I've been there.”

The old man said nothing.

Ethan's smile slowly faded. “I know what it feels like to put something back because you don't have enough money.”

He lowered his voice, his eyes dropping briefly to the groceries.

“And I know how much it hurts when people look at you like you're less of a person because of it.”

Something changed in the old man's eyes.

Ethan turned toward the cashier and held out the money. “Ring his things up.”

The cashier stared at him. “You're paying for all of that?”

Ethan nodded. “Yeah.”

The cashier glanced at the money in Ethan's hand, then at the old man's groceries. “You sure?”

Ethan gave him a tired look. “If I wasn't sure, would I still be standing here?”

The cashier's mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Fair enough.”

He took the money and began processing the payment.

The woman waiting behind them suddenly let out another impatient sigh. “Finally.”

Ethan slowly turned his head.

The woman looked up from her phone and met his gaze. “What?”

Ethan stared at her for a moment.

There was plenty he could have said.

Instead, he simply shook his head. “Nothing.”

He didn't have the energy to argue.

A few moments later, the cashier finished the transaction and pushed the groceries toward the old man.

“You're all set,” he said.

The old man reached for the grocery bag, but the moment he lifted it from the counter, his arm dipped noticeably under the weight.

It wasn't an enormous bag, but the cashier had packed everything tightly together. The cans pressed against the bottom, the bottle of milk added more weight, and the loaf of bread and fruit had been squeezed around the heavier items. The thin plastic handles stretched against the old man's fingers, digging into his skin.

Ethan noticed the way his wrist trembled.

The old man adjusted his grip and tried to straighten his back, but the effort made him wince slightly.

“You all right?” Ethan asked.

The old man quickly nodded. “I'm fine. It's just a little heavier than I expected.”

Ethan glanced toward the store's front windows.

The glass reflected the harsh fluorescent lights inside, but beyond it, the night had grown even darker. The parking lot was nearly empty now.

It was late.

Much later than Ethan had realized.

The kind of hour when most people were already home behind locked doors, while anyone still walking the streets was either heading somewhere important or had nowhere else to go.

Ethan looked back at the old man.

The man's coat was thin, his shoulders were narrow, and he was already struggling with a grocery bag that Ethan knew would only become heavier the farther he had to carry it. From the way he had been moving, Ethan doubted the man had a car waiting outside.

“Where do you live?” Ethan asked.

The old man looked at him with mild confusion. “Why?”

“I'm asking where you live.”

“It's not far,” the old man replied, shifting the bag to his other hand.

The plastic handles stretched again.

Ethan frowned. “How far?”

The old man hesitated before answering. “About twenty minutes.”

“Walking?”

The old man gave a small nod.

Ethan looked at the bag.

Then at the rain outside.

Then back at the old man's trembling hand.

There was no way the man was going to make that walk comfortably.

He could already imagine the bag cutting into his fingers, the cans growing heavier with every step, the cold rain soaking through his coat while he struggled to keep everything balanced.

Ethan sighed.

“You're not carrying that by yourself.”

The old man immediately shook his head. “No, no. You've already done more than enough.”

Ethan stepped closer and reached for the bag. “Give it to me.”

The old man pulled it slightly toward himself. “Young man, I can manage.”

“I know you can,” Ethan replied, holding out his hand. “I'm still carrying it.”

The old man stared at him.

Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Unless you want to stand here arguing with me until midnight.”

A faint smile finally appeared on the old man's face.

“You're quite stubborn.”

“I've been told that before.”

The old man gave a quiet chuckle before reluctantly handing him the bag.

The difference was immediate.

Ethan's arm dropped slightly when the weight settled into his hand. He looked down at the bag and understood why the old man had struggled with it. It was heavier than it looked.

“That's not a little heavy,” Ethan muttered.

The old man smiled apologetically. “I warned you.”

“You definitely didn't.”

The old man laughed softly.

It was the first genuine laugh Ethan had heard from him all evening.

Ethan adjusted his grip, wrapping the handles more securely around his palm. “Come on. I'll walk you home.”

The old man hesitated. “You don't have to.”

“I know.”

“It's late.”

“I noticed.”

“And you have your own family waiting.”

Ethan's expression softened.

“Exactly,” he said. “Which is why I know someone should make sure you get home safely too.”

The old man fell silent.

For several seconds, he simply looked at Ethan.

Then he nodded.

“Thank you.”