My husband's germaphobia is pathological; after touching me, he washes his hands until his knuckles turn pale. He won't even touch the rim of a plate for dishes I've picked from. On our third wedding anniversary night, I dug out a blood donation card he had hidden for eight years—four thousand milliliters, with only one blood recipient: his childhood sweetheart. I asked for a divorce, and he sneered, "Your dad used fifty million to force me to marry you; this marriage was already dirty." Later, he knelt before my dad's hospital bed, begging me to accept his kidney. I tore up the consent form in public, saying, "He Lin, that fifty million was my dowry. Your He family drank my blood for eight years; now, it's my turn to find you dirty."