I collapsed in the grocery store on the seventh day of my liquid diet. My husband, Robert, had complained about my thick waist, and my son, Dylan, had been embarrassed by me at parent-teacher conferences. Before I was reborn, Dylan pushed me into a wall, and a sharp nail pierced my head. In my dying moments, I saw a family portrait of them and the other woman. “Mom, my new mom is a hundred times prettier than you,” Dylan giggled, his blood-stained hands still innocent. Now, staring at my swollen face in the mirror, I spat out the last bit of sour water from my stomach. “Perfect. They’re all still breathing.” This time, I’ll make their lives a living hell. My last few minutes before rebirth stretched into an agonizing eternity. I lay on the floor as my son, Dylan Vance, stomped on my face. Eighteen years old, yet his face was twisted into a demonic mask. I gritted my teeth, too weak to scream. Dylan grabbed my hair, yanked me up, then let me fall back down like a rag doll. “You old hag, still trying to fight back?!” “Look at you, you fat cow!” “So what if Dad cheated? It’s all *your* fault!” “You’re nothing but a parasite, a useless waste of space who only knows how to do housework!” “That’s what you get for always lecturing me! For running your mouth!” “How dare you even show up and demand answers!” “I’ve wanted a new mom for ages!” He yanked me again, smashing my head against the wall twice more. My vision blurred, smeared with blood, leaving only vague shapes and flashing lights. Not far from me, meticulously framed, was a family portrait. In the picture, Robert Vance—my husband—smiled, his arm around a young woman’s waist. My son, Dylan Vance, stood between them, cutting a wedding cake. And I, a gaping hole in my forehead from a wall nail, lay on the floor like a discarded mop. I struggled to see the woman’s face in the photo, but my breath hitched, and I died before I could. * * * Under a blinding white light, my eyes snapped open. A short, sharp gasp escaped my throat, like a drowning person breaking the surface. My vision was a kaleidoscope of swirling, overlapping light spots. I was lying on the floor, sweat soaking my cheap cotton T-shirt. My gaze slowly focused, sweeping over scattered oranges, an overturned shopping basket. A grocery store… the produce section… May 7th, 2022. Six months before my death. I slowly sat up, memory fragments clicking into place. Robert had called me a pig, Dylan said I disgusted him. In a fit of despair, I’d driven myself to the brink. A liquid diet… seven days with nothing in my stomach, until my blood sugar crashed, and I passed out in the grocery store. “Help! Someone’s fallen here!” a woman’s voice cried out. Chaotic footsteps rapidly approached as staff rushed to help me up. “Maybe… we should call your family to pick you up?” A staff member pulled out their phone. Family? Ha. Robert was probably being interviewed for some “Successful Entrepreneur” magazine, and Dylan was skipping class to play video games. Neither would care. Call them? So they could see my foolish, starved self, all for a sliver of their approval? I shook my head, rising and shuffling over to a customer rest bench. As I plopped down, the bench groaned under my weight. I felt a pang of embarrassment. In my previous life, I really had been too heavy. Looking at my reflection in the glass—an unkempt “old hag” drained of all her feminine charm by life. No wonder people found me disgusting. A woman who doesn’t love herself never gets a happy ending.
My name is Alice Davies. A pathetic woman who sacrificed her family’s entire life savings for love. To help Robert start his business, I pushed my father to embezzle funds and took out high-interest loans while heavily pregnant. In return, Robert called me a worn-out housewife who ate for free, a parasite. And the son I risked my health to have late in life didn’t just cover up his father’s affair—he ended up killing me. I suppressed all my emotions, a storm of hatred exploding in my eyes. Robert Vance, Dylan Vance, and that mistress… I’m sending you all to hell. I pulled out my old phone, its screen cracked in one corner. For the first time, I indulged in a ride-sharing app. How ironic. He was so successful, spent lavishly on his mistress, yet I only ever dared to take the bus. If my monthly household expenses went over by even a few hundred dollars, he’d rip into me, calling me a spendthrift. Robert was particularly cunning. He always played the good guy when I disciplined Dylan, offering small treats and favors to win his son’s adoration. Over time, I became the villain in this house, and he was the “best dad in the world.” I pushed open the front door. The expensive crystal chandelier gleamed too brightly, illuminating a huge family portrait. Before long, my face in that picture would be replaced by the mistress’s. That shameless slut, she’s completely stolen my life. I *have* to find out who she is and strip her of everything! Loud game sound effects and excited shouts echoed from the living room. Dylan was skipping school to play games again. Before, I would’ve rushed over immediately, cut the power, and forced him to study. But now, I couldn’t care less about saving his rotten life. “Mom! Where the hell have you been?! I’m starving! Where’s dinner?!” Dylan didn’t even look up, his eyes glued to the giant curved screen, fingers clacking on the keyboard. In my previous life, hearing that, I would’ve instantly rushed into the kitchen, my heart aching. Now, I almost wished he’d just starve to death. “Coming,” I replied dismissively. Dylan grumbled impatiently, “Hurry up! Stop dragging your feet!” I silently walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out some moldy potatoes and cabbage, and chopped them up without washing before tossing them into a pan. It wouldn’t kill him, so a quick sloppy job would do. In my previous life, I had to pinch pennies. They ate fresh food, and I got all the leftovers. But even when I cooked a variety of dishes, Dylan would just grumble, “It’s alright, I guess.” This time, I wasn’t going to be their personal maid. “Damn! That was awesome! I totally carried that game!” Dylan exclaimed, pounding the table. “You’re the man, bro!” his worthless friends cheered through his headset. “Is dinner ready yet?! Are you trying to starve me to death?!” Dylan yelled impatiently. I grabbed a few slices of whole wheat bread and brought out the undercooked stir-fry. “Here, eat.” I slammed the plate down on the table with a clang. Dylan frowned, “What the hell is this? Pig slop?!” “Your dad hasn’t given me the household allowance recently. Just make do,” I said flatly, subtly shifting the blame to Robert. Dylan threw down his fork. “Dad’s the CEO of a company, he wouldn’t be short on cash! You’re just lazy and blew all the money!” “Dylan, your dad’s a CEO; he has a lot of business dinners and needs to keep both male and female clients happy. It’s normal for expenses to be high,” I said, feigning helplessness. “Mom knows you’re feeling wronged, but we shouldn’t upset your dad. What if he finds another woman and leaves us? We’d be in serious trouble, just the two of us.” I watched his reaction as I spoke. Dylan’s eyes flickered. He already knew his dad was seeing someone else. He was just like his father—petty and selfish. I’d just planted a seed of doubt in his mind; it would bloom eventually. “That stupid support in the bottom lane, does he even know how to play?! Where the hell are the wards?! Up his ass?!” He took his anger out on his gaming teammates. I looked at this son, whom I’d risked half my life to have. Young, yet oozing a disgusting, greasy vulgarity, spewing profanity, and twisted to the core. I’d sacrificed everything for him in my previous life, only to create a failure. What a waste of life! Perhaps he was starving, but Dylan still wolfed down all the food. “Mom,” he wiped his mouth, propping his feet on the table, “I need to talk to you about something.” Here we go. I wondered how much money he wanted this time.
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “298508”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster #浪漫Romance #现实主义Realistic
Leave a Reply