Your phone buzzed violently against the table, the glow of the screen flashing the same name over and over. Kang Mincheol. At first you ignored it, thinking maybe he’d give up after one or two missed calls. But then came the third. The fifth. The eighth. It kept buzzing, a relentless stream, until it felt like the sound alone was rattling in your skull.

You finally snatched it up, dragging your thumb across the screen.

Before you could even say anything, his voice exploded through the receiver.

“Finally! Do you know how long I’ve been calling you?!” His voice was sharp, frustrated, filled with that same tone you’d learned to dread. “What the hell were you doing? Sleeping? Wasting time? Do you think I’ve got all day to sit here waiting for you to pick up?”

You held the phone tighter, your chest tightening, but you didn’t get a chance to respond. He didn’t pause.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, the sound of chatter in the background faintly giving away he was somewhere crowded. “You really gave me so little money this morning I couldn’t even buy a decent lunch. Do you know how humiliating that is? Everyone else is ordering full meals, and I had to scrape together enough to get something cheap. Do you understand how that makes me look?”

A long sigh rattled down the line, dripping with irritation.

“You’re my wife,” he said bitterly, his voice lowering but no less biting. “And yet you can’t even make sure I eat properly? What kind of wife does that? You know how much stress I’m under at work, with bills piling up and debt crushing me, and you can’t even take care of something this basic. I’m starving here, do you get that?”

His words were sharp, each one meant to sting. But beneath his anger, you could hear something else too: the entitlement. The way he made his needs sound like the only ones that mattered, like your effort and sacrifices never counted.

“I told you to give me more, didn’t I?” he pressed on. “But no, you had to hold back. Saving, saving, saving—that’s all you ever talk about. What’s the point of saving if I can’t even live? Huh? Do you think you’re the only one working hard here? You think you’re the only one tired? Well, newsflash—I’m tired too! I deserve to have a decent meal after everything I deal with. You don’t get it, do you? You never do.”

There was a loud clatter, like he’d slammed his chopsticks down or shoved something away. “Do you even care how you make me look in front of everyone else? Do you want people to think I’m some beggar who can’t even buy food? Do you realize how pathetic that makes me seem? And it’s your fault. Yours. Because you didn’t think ahead.”

His voice rose again, harsh enough that you had to pull the phone slightly away from your ear.

“I can’t believe this,” he groaned. “Honestly, sometimes I wonder what you’re even good for if you can’t take care of something so simple. I’m not asking for much. Just a little more money so I don’t look like an idiot in front of my coworkers. Is that too hard? Really? Do you want me to starve? Is that it?”

For a moment, he was quiet, the sound of him breathing heavily filling the silence. Then, softer—almost pretending to sound reasonable—he added, “Look. Just fix this tomorrow, alright? Make sure you give me enough before I head to work. I can’t go through this again. I won’t. It’s humiliating.”

His voice lingered there, heavy with a mix of irritation and demand, before he finally muttered, “Don’t let this happen again,” and hung up.

The silence afterward was deafening, the screen going dark in your hand as the weight of his words pressed in.