While recovering from childbirth, my husband, Damien, was brought home drunk from a bar by some friends, with a woman at his side. He vomited everywhere, and I silently stayed by his side all night. When he finally opened his eyes, the first thing he said was, "She's pregnant. Let's get divorced."

I didn't cry or make a scene, just calmly nodded. In my past life, I took my wrapped-up baby out into the street and caused a commotion. Soon, the woman was known as a homewrecker across our small town, and in her despair, she jumped into a river. Damien was fired for misconduct, but he never blamed me. On our daughter's first birthday, he set fire to the yard, killing me, our child, and my parents. In those final moments, I saw his twisted smile as he said, "Go down and keep my Gwendolyn company." Then, I opened my eyes again, back to the moment he told me about the divorce.

"Gwendolyn is different from you. Her family would kill her for being pregnant out of wedlock, and you can't just watch her die." Seeing the bloodshot eyes from his hangover, my heart clenched. As I turned to look, Gwendolyn sighed softly and draped her hand naturally over Damien's waist.

All the memories came rushing back like a flood. The searing pain of the fire still seemed to strike every nerve. I shivered, realizing with disbelief that I had been reborn. Seeing me unresponsive, Damien frowned, "I promise, once the baby is born and registered, we'll remarry."

I dug my nails into my palms, forcing myself to stay calm. This time, I didn’t cry or make a scene, just nodded and said, "Alright, then let's divorce. You pack your things and move out."

But then he said, "Gwendolyn is pregnant, and she can't handle moving around too much. I've arranged for her things to be moved here this afternoon."

This house was provided to me by the local council. Initially, I was pregnant without being married, and my mom slapped me over ten times, leaving my lip bleeding, but Damien never agreed to marry me. I ended up moving into his house, and his mother finally consented to our marriage.

We lived in a tiny five-square-meter room hastily built in the yard. In the freezing winter, I cooked meals and served his family while heavily pregnant. He never expressed concern, only filled my head with dreams of an unattainable future to keep me content.

Eventually, my father took pity on me and agreed to retire early, securing a job for me at the council, allowing me to be given this house with a garden before I gave birth. Now, after his betrayal and the divorce, he wanted to bring his mistress into my house.

I never imagined he would be so shameless. The pain of burnt skin from my previous life was still vivid; I couldn't bear to relive it. Without arguing, I turned and left. Last night, when those so-called artistic friends carried him home, I wanted them to put him in the guest room. But Jalen wouldn’t listen and placed them both on the master bed. "How can you make your husband sleep in the guest room? What kind of wife are you?"

Resigned, I took my daughter to the guest room. It seems we won’t be going back now. After gathering a few essentials, I picked up my child and stepped out of the yard, heading straight to the phone booth outside the department store.

I dialed the number from the slip of paper. Someone picked up quickly.

"If you don’t mind me bringing a child, come and get us."

The voice on the phone was Cyrus, my childhood neighbor. Growing up, he often joked about my looks and playfully claimed he would marry me someday. But life took a turn when he was incarcerated for some questionable activities, and by the time he was released, I had already married Damien. He didn't say much afterward, just sent me a hundred dollars through a mutual friend and disappeared for a year.

Recently, his friend handed me a note with Cyrus's number, explaining that he had become a small business owner and assured me that I could reach out to him if I faced any challenges. After a brief pause on the other end of the line, his voice was clear, “Wait for me—ten days.”

I walked with my child under the blistering sun for what felt like hours, my face flushed from the heat, yet my heart remained cold and weighed down. Before I realized it, I found myself outside my parents’ apartment building. They were sitting by the window on the second floor, gazing out at the world beyond.

Quickly, I ducked into a corner, letting my tears fall silently. In the past, my mother had fervently opposed my relationship with Damien, often using both harsh words and stern actions to express her disapproval. Her anger once filled me with resentment, leading me to question our bond. It wasn’t until the fire broke out that I understood the depth of her love.

As the burning beams came crashing down, she pushed me out of harm's way without hesitation. My father ushered me toward the door, only to return to her side. Through tear-filled eyes, he implored, "Sweetheart, I can’t let your mom face this alone. She fears being alone. Don’t mourn for us. Your Aunt Alice and Uncle Arturo are your real parents; we adopted you. Be good and live well."

But the exits were locked; there was no escape. In the end, the flames consumed us all. My poor decision to marry Damien led them to this tragic end, sacrificing themselves for a daughter who wasn’t truly theirs.

Ashamed and unable to face them, I clung to my child and cried my way back home. As I pushed open the gate to the courtyard, there was Damien's gang of rowdy friends setting up a table for drinks. Jalen was dressed in a leather jacket and flared pants, belting out tunes on his guitar in the yard, frightening my daughter into immediate, uncontrollable tears.

Damien, visibly annoyed, snapped, “Make her stop crying; it’s ruining the vibe.”

Jalen added with a grin, “How about some snacks, sis-in-law? I love your stew. Make plenty!”

Damien continued, “And cook some chicken soup for Gwendolyn to help her recover. Get inside; the kid’s crying is giving me a headache.”

I bit my lip and, without a word, carried my child inside.

Damien worked at a seed company, technically employed, but he often shirked his duties, rarely showing up for his shifts. He possessed a remarkable artistic talent; the mural at the train station in our small town was his creation, painted with care and earning quite a bit of attention and the introduction to those so-called artists.

In reality, these meetings were just excuses to hit the nightclubs, drinking and dancing, mingling freely without a care. During this time, he met Gwendolyn Ellis, a singer at one of the clubs. Since then, his friends would regularly invade our home, treating it like their personal dining hall, with me playing the role of the hostess.

I grumbled to Damien about it, but he dismissed me, saying, “You don’t get art at all; it’s like a symphony of souls working together for the good of the family. When I become famous, you’ll be living the high life.”

Once, my love for him made me put up with everything in hopes of a bright future together. But now, I had no reason to endure such humiliation any longer.

I stepped into the kitchen and quickly made myself a simple chicken noodle soup, retreating to my room to eat. They waited for a long time, and when no food was served, Damien came in looking for me. He saw me eating alone and, frustrated, shattered the bowl.

“So, you’re just looking out for yourself, huh? Leaving all of us hungry?”

I comforted my crying daughter, my gaze cold as I met his eyes. “Damien, we’re getting divorced tomorrow. I’m done serving you and your friends.”

He was taken aback. Since we started dating, I’d never spoken to him so bluntly. He seemed to grasp something was wrong, his tone mellowing a bit. “Didn’t we agree that after Gwendolyn has the baby, we’d get back together? It’s not like we’re truly separating.”

Before I could speak, the crew walked in, stirring up trouble. “Hey, what’s with the attitude? Are we not welcome anymore? Damien, aren’t you going to step in? You’re such a pushover.”

Gwendolyn’s eyes filled with tears quickly, “She’s not pushing you guys away; it’s me she doesn’t want here. Damien, don’t let me spoil your friendships. I’ll just go and… end the pregnancy.”

Damien, ever concerned about appearances, couldn’t handle the pressure from the group. In his anger, he slapped me, knocking me off the chair onto the floor, my daughter falling with me, crying out loud.

Panicked, I picked her up, noticing her flushed face. I was immediately worried, “Damien, her crying doesn’t sound right. I need to take her to the hospital!”

I scrambled to my feet, ready to bolt, but they blocked my path. Jalen scoffed, “Kids fall and get bumps all the time; it’s normal. Don’t be so dramatic.”

I glared at Damien. “Get them to move! Damien, she’s your daughter too. Can you really stand by and let this happen?”

My daughter’s cries weakened, her face turning from red to a dark blue. Desperate, I grabbed a pair of scissors from the table, pointing them at Gwendolyn's neck. “Move, or I’ll do it!”

Gwendolyn’s face went white with fear as she clutched her belly and backed away, “Damien, I’m scared; my stomach hurts.”

Damien reacted instantly, viciously kicking me in the stomach, sending me sprawling, my daughter falling silent on the ground. But he quickly picked up Gwendolyn, cradling her, “I’ll take you to the hospital; I won’t let anything happen to our child.”

The group quickly followed him out. Despite the pain, I clutched my daughter and rushed to the hospital with every ounce of strength I had.