My dad was a raging alcoholic and a gambling addict. My mom was always calling me, sobbing her heart out over it. With every penny I’d saved from work, I begged my mom to divorce him and leave with me. But my mom, that very same day, went right back and told my dad everything. My dad flew into a drunken rage and beat me to death. My mom could have called the police, she could have saved me, but she was too scared. She just stood there, watching me die. Afterward, she even lied to the police, claiming I attacked him first, and he was just acting in self-defense. The next time I opened my eyes, my mom was sobbing to me again, complaining about my dad hitting her while drunk. I scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “Why does Dad only hit *you*, Mom, and no one else? Clearly, that’s just his way of showing how much he loves you!” I was dead. Killed by my own father. It was my twenty-fifth birthday. My mom said she wanted to celebrate with me. I was so caught up in the idea of celebrating with her that I forgot: my mom had never celebrated my birthday before. She didn’t even know when it was. After work, I politely declined my colleagues’ invitations and bought my own birthday cake. But I never imagined that when I got home, I’d be met with my dad’s brutal beating. My dad was drunk, reeking of alcohol, his eyes filled with contempt and resentment. I didn’t even get a single bite of my birthday cake before I collapsed to the floor. “The deceased suffered multiple fractures, severe head trauma from a blunt object, accompanied by intracranial hemorrhage, and showed signs of violent struggle before death…” “Witness Brenda Smith, is it true that your daughter, the deceased Aubrey Wen, was beaten to death by your husband, the suspect Frank Wen?” The judge’s face was beet-red, veins throbbing in his temples. I heard him say he’d never seen such brutal violence, a man beating his own daughter to death. My mom stood on the witness stand, shaking her head wildly. “It was all my daughter’s fault! My husband didn’t mean to hit her!” “My daughter was disobedient from a young age! She even deliberately provoked my husband! My husband acted to protect himself and me. It was self-defense!” “My daughter was standing there with a knife! She’s not right in the head! She wanted to kill us! She’s always been mentally ill!” My mom was hysterical, rambling nonsense. And I, floating above them, watched her spew her nonsense with a blank expression. I *was* holding a knife, but it was a plastic cake knife. With all the fat on their bellies, that plastic knife would probably just snap if I tried to stab them. Self-defense? Protecting *her*? It was the first time I realized my mom could lie so smoothly. This was clearly my dad’s revenge. All because I said I’d take my mom, who he’d abused for years, and help her escape. I wanted what was best for her. My heart ached for her. But what did I get in return? My mom, turning around and practically melting into my dad’s arms, ‘innocently’ telling him I was trying to break them up, that I wanted them to divorce. So, I was lured back home for my birthday, only to be smashed to the floor with a stool by my dad as I was cutting the cake. It hurt so much. By the time my entire body was swollen and bruised, I couldn’t feel anything anymore. In the end, because my mom committed perjury and signed a statement of forgiveness, my dad was acquitted and walked free right there in court. The legal fees? They were paid with *my* life savings, the tens of thousands I’d scraped together from my job. It was a sick joke. I never knew that the mother-daughter bond I thought we had was nothing but my own delusion, my own one-sided fantasy. Because the case was so bizarre, even after I died, I ended up all over the trending news. I watched the online trolls rip into me, and I watched my dad, after being acquitted, put on a whole show on live stream, claiming he’d ‘spoiled’ me rotten. That’s why I was so ‘lawless,’ ‘uncontrollable,’ and ‘violent.’ Even Mrs. Jenkins downstairs, who I’d helped countless times, went on social media for clout, calling me a ‘delinquent girl’ and saying my death was a ‘blessing’ for the entire neighborhood.
Maybe my resentment was just too strong, but somehow, I was reborn. The moment my consciousness returned, I was still clutching my phone, my mom’s sobbing voice pouring through the receiver. “Your dad went drinking again! What is so damn good about alcohol anyway?!” “He drinks morning, noon, and night. And after that, he’s off with his drinking buddies, gambling away the money you sent me last time – every single cent of that five hundred dollars gone!” “My body is covered in bruises! Aubrey, please come home!” Go home? Before, I genuinely thought she wanted me back because she missed me. It was only after I died that I realized she only wanted me home so my dad could hit *me*. If he hit me, she wouldn’t get hit. I touched the tears of self-mockery welling in my eyes. Thank god, I hadn’t been abandoned by fate. My mom kept talking for a while, then, noticing my silence, asked suspiciously, “Aubrey, can you hear me? Hello? Aubrey?” My mind snapped back. I scoffed. “Why does Dad only hit *you*, Mom, and no one else? Clearly, that’s just his way of showing how much he loves you!” Before, I would always tell my mom to divorce him, then send her some money for living expenses. My unusual reaction this time made my mom freeze on the other end of the line. “But you always said loving couples don’t fight! Didn’t you even tell me to call the police?” I chuckled. “Mom, they say it’s better to preserve something old than to destroy a long-standing union. Plus, you and Dad have been married for over twenty years. If there was no love, would you really have lasted this long?” “Besides, sure, Dad likes to drink and gamble, and he loves to hit and yell at you, and he probably spends his days at shady clubs with other women, but at least he comes home, right?” “Didn’t you always say men are like that? As long as they come home, that’s what matters?” My mom hesitated. This wasn’t achieving her goal at all. She just wanted to play the victim, guilt-trip me into sending money, then hand it straight over to her ‘beloved’ husband. How could she possibly leave Dad? She’s clearly obsessed with him! But I wasn’t taking the bait, and she was stumped. “Aubrey, you seem different.” Of course I’m different. I’ve died once already. “Mom, I’ve grown up. I understand your marriage now. So just live happily with Dad, okay?” You two are a perfect match, two rotten peas in a pod. With that, I hung up. My current company is a Fortune 500 giant. Though the workload is heavy, the promotion prospects are excellent. In my last life, to stay with my mom and protect her from harm, I gave up an opportunity to be stationed abroad. I also missed out on a major promotion. The result? My mom tricked me, and my dad beat me to death. This time, I decisively wrote up my application for the overseas posting and submitted it to my boss. The last tens of thousands I had saved were now locked away in a high-interest account. From today on, I’m a miser. I won’t spend a single cent.
Just as I was packing my bags to leave town, my mom showed up at my rental apartment. Her face was covered in bruises, her left eye swollen shut. It was late at night, and she was wearing sunglasses to hide the damage. In my last life, it was at this very moment that I told my mom I had tens of thousands of dollars saved and urged her to divorce my dad and come with me. She went straight home and told my dad. “Mom, what are you doing here?” My mom didn’t say a word. She walked in, sat on the couch, and started to cry. “Aubrey, I can’t live like this anymore! Look at what your dad did to me! Please, you have to save me!” I feigned helplessness. “Mom, what do you want to do? You can’t be serious about divorce, can you?” “Divorce? Yes! I want a divorce! I can’t take this life anymore!” Divorce? My mom said this to me every time she got beaten. That’s why, in my last life, I suggested she just divorce him. But I never expected her to go home and tell my dad exactly that. After my dad got drunk, he hit me while cursing, “You worthless little brat! You dare try to break up your mom and me?” “If I don’t beat you today, you’ll forget your place!” “If it weren’t for me, do you think you’d even be alive in this world?” I was already losing consciousness from the beating, but my mind replayed the years of my life. If I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have been born into this family. From as far back as I could remember, I’d lived under the shadow of domestic violence. My dad’s moods were unpredictable. When he was happy, he’d lift me high and play, but he never knew I had a fear of heights. When he lost money gambling, he’d come home, smashing things and hitting. My mom would push me out to bear his rage. I knew from a young age that I was a girl, and no one in my family really wanted me. If my mom could have had more kids, I’m sure I’d have younger brothers or sisters. But sadly, after my dad threw her into a freezing cold bath, she couldn’t have children anymore. Memories flashed before my eyes like a highlight reel. I looked at my mom, cowering in the corner, trembling. I let out a bitter laugh. Before, whenever she got hit, I was the one who stepped forward to protect her. Now, she just cowered, afraid to move. All her talk about loving me, about me being her only daughter, it was just comfort she sought after my dad hurt her. So now, I would never feel soft-hearted toward my mom again. I watched my emotional mom on the couch, calmly picking up my phone. “Dad, you heard that, right? Mom did come looking for me.” “But did you two have a fight? Mom actually said she wants to divorce you.” My dad’s voice, amplified by the phone, reached my mom’s ears. “Lock the door! I’m coming right over to break her legs!” “She wants to divorce me? Over my dead body!”
My dad arrived quickly. The moment he flung the door open, he charged straight at my mom, kicking her to the ground. By the time my dad finished venting, my mom was lying on the floor, unable to move. And I just watched, cold and detached, just like my mom in my last life. “Dad, aren’t you hitting her too hard? Mom isn’t moving.” My dad scoffed. “I know my limits. She’s not going to die. She’ll be up tomorrow, doing my laundry and cooking my meals.” “Oh, and do you have any money?” My dad asked if I had money while rummaging through my bag on the couch. Thankfully, I’d already put all my money in the bank, and even left the deposit slips at my best friend’s place. I bit my lip, shaking my head. “Dad, I already gave all my money to Mom. Didn’t she tell you?” My dad kicked over a stool. “What good is that pathetic amount? It’s barely enough to line my pockets!” “No wonder everyone says daughters are useless! You barely make any money in a year. Why don’t you just find some rich guy to marry, and bring home a huge wedding payout for *me* to spend!” “Dad, I’ve given Mom over ten thousand dollars these past two years. I’ll definitely work harder in the future and earn more for you both.” “Ten thousand?” My dad’s expression changed. He snatched the phone from my mom’s pocket. He saw there was nothing in SnapChat, but then he found over five thousand dollars hidden in her PayPal account. “You b*tch! Hiding money from me, your own husband?! Aren’t I beating you hard enough?!” My mom scrambled behind the couch, terrified. My dad couldn’t care less about her anymore. Humming a tune, he transferred the PayPal balance to his own account, then tossed the phone onto the floor and sauntered out. Not until his footsteps faded completely from the hallway did my mom finally drag herself off the floor. “Why didn’t you stop your dad when he was hitting me just now?” I feigned fear. “I didn’t dare, Mom. I was afraid Dad would hit me too.” “Mom, didn’t you always tell me? It doesn’t matter how much you suffer, as long as *I* live a good life?” “If it was me getting beaten, you’d be even sadder than I was, right? That’s why I just stood there, frozen.” My mom’s mouth twitched. She had indeed said those words. Then, she noticed my packed suitcase in the living room. “Are you going on a business trip?” I smiled. “The company’s sending me to City A to kick off a new project.” “City A? That’s quite far. When will you be back?” “The company hasn’t given a specific date, but it could be six months or more. But don’t worry, Mom, I heard the salary will be much higher when I return. It’s good for our family.” Hearing that, my mom’s face brightened. But she still didn’t dare to smile, because any movement would pull at her facial injuries.
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