My name was Lillian Miller. The day I went into the operating room to deliver my twins, my husband, Vincent Moore, flat-out refused to sign the consent form for anesthesia. He insisted I was allergic to it and couldn’t have any. So, there I was, undergoing an emergency C-section without any pain relief. When the moment came and my babies were pulled from me, I took my last breath and died. But my soul didn’t move on; it lingered, and I overheard a conversation between Vincent and his mistress, Nancy Fox. He said, his voice dripping with satisfaction, “Now you can rightfully be my wife. You won’t have to suffer through childbirth, and you can step right into the role of mother.” Nancy gazed down at my two little ones nestled in Vincent’s arms, a wide smile spreading across her face. And just like that, I found myself back in the delivery room on that fateful day once more. I jolted awake from a haze of pain, only to find a pool of blood soaking the sheets. I had been reborn. Just then, my husband, Vincent, burst through the door and froze at the sight of me. Panic etched across his face, he rushed to my side. “Lillian, it looks like you’re going into labor! I’ll call an ambulance right away. Just stay put; I’ll take care of everything.” In my past life, he had said the same thing, and I had believed him, trusting that he would handle it all. But I hadn’t anticipated that he would turn around and tell the doctor not to give me anesthesia, leading me to endure a torturous C-section that ultimately cost me my life. This time around, I was determined to seize control of my fate. I gripped his shirt; my voice strained with urgency. “Please, call my parents and let them know what’s happening.” Vincent shot up, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What do you need to call them for? I don’t want to worry them. I’ll take you myself, and that’s enough.” After dialing for the ambulance, he settled down on the edge of the bed, lighting a cigarette as if waiting for a casual visit rather than the arrival of our children. I was in so much agony that I couldn’t even move. I desperately reached for my phone on the bedside table, but Vincent quickly snatched it away from me. His annoyance deepened. “What are you doing? I told you, no need to call anyone. You’ve got me here to support you through this.” With all the strength I could muster, I replied, “My parents raised me. Now that I’m about to have my babies, I want them by my side. It would make me feel so much better.” Vincent slowly placed my phone on the far side of the room, out of my reach. “You don’t need to call them. It’s just two babies, Lillian. You’re not a kid anymore; you don’t need your mom and dad holding your hand.” Frustrated and feeling trapped, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I slipped out of bed, but in my weakened state, I lost my balance and fell to the floor. Vincent rushed over to help me up, his face devoid of concern. “Just sit tight and wait for the ambulance. Why are you moving around so much?” I pushed his hand away, my voice icy. “Why don’t you check to see if the ambulance has arrived?” He shot me a glare. “It’ll come when it comes. I don’t need to check.” I retorted, “What if they’re at the door right now? Go see what’s taking so long. It won’t kill you to check!” With a huff of frustration, Vincent stormed out of the room. Seizing the opportunity, I crawled over to the table, grabbed my phone, and dialed my mom. I strained to speak, “Mom, I’m in labor. You and Dad need to get to the hospital ASAP. I’ll be there in a minute.” Before I could hear her response, my strength gave out, and the phone slipped from my grasp, crashing to the floor as darkness enveloped me.
When I regained consciousness, I found myself in the hospital, having been rushed there by the ambulance. In my previous life, my parents hadn’t been informed, leaving Vincent as the only one by my side during my delivery. Back then, the doctor had informed us that my twins were too large for a natural birth. Vincent had simply replied, “We never planned on a natural delivery anyway. Let’s go straight to a C-section.” The doctor nodded and prepared for the procedure, handing Vincent the consent form for anesthesia. Vincent glanced at the paper and asked, “This is voluntary, right? If I don’t pay for it, you won’t use it?” The doctor paused, taken aback. “What do you mean? There’s no way to skip the anesthesia. This is a C-section! If you don’t use it, she’ll be in excruciating pain. Sign it quickly; we can’t delay the operation.” Vincent, however, tossed the form back at the doctor. “No anesthesia. She’s allergic to it.” The doctor’s disbelief was palpable. “Just sign it. We’ll assess which anesthetic is suitable. It’s impossible for her to be allergic to every single one!” Vincent stood firm. “She’s been tested before; she’s allergic to all anesthetics. If you don’t follow my instructions and something goes wrong, who’s responsible? “If she dies from the pain, it’s a complication of childbirth, not your fault. It’s on her.” The doctor was visibly shocked, likely unable to fathom such a callous statement from a pregnant woman’s husband. As the standoff continued over the consent form, the lead surgeon impatiently took the paper away. “Let the family make the decisions. We can’t make choices for them.” With that, the doctor proceeded to cut open my abdomen, and my screams echoed through the entire floor. At that moment, as my children were pulled from me, I took my last breath. After my death, my children became mere pawns in Vincent’s game, destined to be raised by his mistress, Nancy. From the very start, Vincent had intended for me to die on that operating table to provide her with a family. My spirit floated back home, where I saw Nancy cradling my children in Vincent’s embrace. He held her close, a smile on his face as he said, “Now you can rightfully be my wife. You won’t have to suffer through childbirth, and you can step right into the role of mother.” Snapping back to reality, I vowed that this time would be different. I wouldn’t let history repeat itself. As I lay there in pain, my eyes closed, I could hear my parents’ worried voices approaching. My mother, Miranda Miller, was frantically calling for the doctor, “Hurry! My daughter is in labor! Get her into surgery right away! I want the best doctor available!”
Once the doctors prepared for my surgery, the same situation unfolded as in my previous life—the consent form for anesthesia was needed again. This time, my mother, Miranda, rushed to grab the form, but the doctor stopped her. “You’re the patient’s mother, right? This decision should be made by the husband; he’s the primary guardian.” It was disheartening to realize that my fate rested in the hands of a man who didn’t love me and to whom I had no blood ties. Vincent snatched the form and glanced at it dismissively. “We’re not signing anything. Just go straight to the C-section.” Miranda’s eyes widened in shock. “What did you just say? Not using anesthesia for a C-section will kill her!” Vincent shrugged, unfazed. “Anesthesia isn’t good for the baby. The twins could be exceptional, and I won’t let a little anesthesia ruin that. Lillian can tough it out; she can recover afterward.” Miranda grabbed Vincent’s arm, her voice trembling. “Vincent, how can you be so heartless? Is this how you treat my daughter?” Back then, Vincent had been so attentive. He stood outside in freezing temperatures all night to apologize, and when he caught a fever for three days, he grinned like a child, saying, “Thank you for forgiving me; it was worth it.” I had been so moved that I insisted on marrying him despite my parents’ protests. They didn’t approve of him, but I was blinded by love and ended up arguing with them. Yet after we married, everything changed. Vincent treated me like a housekeeper, neglecting me and often not even coming home to sleep. I never told my parents about the hardships I faced; they had no idea how miserable I was. Miranda wrestled the consent form back, determined to sign it herself. The doctor sighed, caught in the middle, “I understand your concern, but since her husband is here, he must sign.” He handed the form back to Vincent. “Please sign quickly; a C-section without anesthesia could endanger your wife’s life!” If anything, those words seemed to solidify Vincent’s resolve. “I said no signing! How can you not understand? “I know my wife better than anyone. She’s allergic to anesthesia. If anything goes wrong because of it, who’s responsible?” The doctor was taken aback, and Miranda frowned, clearly worried. My father, Ryan Miller, pushed Vincent aside, his voice cold. “How could I not know my daughter is allergic to anesthesia? Are you deliberately trying to make her suffer?” To everyone’s surprise, Vincent pulled out a document proving my allergies to various anesthetics.
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