Ever since my husband passed away, my mother-in-law and sister-in-law dropped their pretense of kindness. They seized his pension, leaving my daughter and me with scraps—cold leftovers, barely enough to keep us alive.

When my daughter fell ill, I begged them for help, but they scoffed at my pleas. Without money for treatment, she died in my arms, her tiny fingers clutching mine until the very end. From that moment on, my world turned gray. I lived like a ghost in that house, enduring years of torment, swallowed by grief and despair.

On my deathbed, weakened and feverish, I overheard whispers outside my door. My sister-in-law—who had gone to university—had returned, her arrival marked by the roar of a luxury car. Then, through the fog of my fading consciousness, I heard a smooth, deferential voice speaking to her.

"Ms. Erin, we should probably leave now. Your mother has been expecting us."

Erin? My mind reeled. That was my name, wasn't it? And my adoptive mother... she was gone.

With the last of my strength, I forced my heavy eyelids open. There she stood—proud, radiant, exuding confidence. It was Milana, my sister-in-law.

Then why... why was someone calling her Erin?

***

"Erin, I'll say this one last time—Arya is just a little girl. If she's going to die, then she'll die. There's nothing to regret!"

The words cut through me like a blade, sharp and merciless. My breath caught in my throat, my vision blurring with unshed tears.

"You didn't even give us a son. What are you crying about? You should be grateful that I'm still giving you food! Don't push your luck!"

A sudden force struck my shoulder, shoving me backward. My feet slipped against the uneven dirt floor and I crashed onto the ground with a dull thud. Pain jolted up my spine, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating weight in my chest.

For a moment, I simply sat there, dazed, struggling to comprehend what had just happened. My fingers dug into the cold, packed earth beneath me as if grasping for something—anything—to hold onto.

Before me stood a young woman, arms crossed, her lips curled in disdain. Her polished shoes, free of dust despite our poverty, contrasted starkly with my own bare and cracked feet. It was Milana.

"Erin, let me be honest with you—our family already has a hard enough time feeding the two of you. And now, you want us to spend money to treat Arya? How are we supposed to survive?"

Her voice dripped with feigned helplessness, but her eyes glimmered with cruel satisfaction.

I stared at her, my heart pounding. The flickering oil lamp overhead cast shadows across her face, distorting her features. For a split second, her expression overlapped with the last image I had of her—her smug smile, her expensive clothes, the glint of polished car doors closing behind her.

A strange chill crawled down my spine. Something felt wrong. My mind swirled with fragmented memories, the tightening sensation of déjà vu gripping my throat. Then, the truth hit me like a hammer blow.

I had been reincarnated.

The shock nearly made me forget to breathe. My head swam, my pulse roared in my ears, but my body moved on instinct. As Milana turned to leave, I lunged forward, seizing her ankle with both hands.

She barely had time to gasp before she lost her balance. Her shriek filled the room as she tumbled onto the hard floor, her limbs flailing. The loud thud echoed, followed by her enraged voice.

"Erin, are you crazy?!"

The commotion jolted my mother-in-law, Hannah, from her seat. She rushed in, her robes fluttering, her brows furrowed in irritation. Outside, the ruckus had drawn curious neighbors, their hushed whispers weaving through the night air. The scent of damp earth and lingering smoke from kitchen fires clung to the breeze, filling the cramped space with an oppressive heaviness.

I didn't wipe my tears. I let them fall, hot and bitter, as I knelt before them. My voice trembled with desperation.

"Mom, I'm begging you—please save Arya! Julian's pension is all with you. If you don't help Arya, she will die!"

I clutched the hem of her robe, my nails pressing into the fabric. My body shook, my heart clinging to the last shred of hope.

But Hannah only sneered. She flicked my hands away as if I were filth. "I am Julian's mother. His pension is meant to be given to me!"

Her words echoed in the stunned silence that followed.

The gathered villagers exchanged glances, murmurs growing louder. Their faces twisted in shock, disbelief flickering in their eyes. Because everyone knew—Julian's pension wasn't meant for his mother. It was for his widow and child.

Every month, a staff from Julian's former mining company brought the money to our house. I was the one who signed for it. But what no one saw was what happened behind closed doors.

The moment the door shut, the money vanished into Hannah's hands. If I refused, if I so much as hesitated, she and Milana would take it by force. They would slap me, drag me across the floor, threaten Arya. They were capable of worse.

At first, I told myself it didn't matter, that as long as Arya and I had enough to eat, I could endure. But the truth was, we had never eaten our fill. Not even once.

I had believed that if I lowered my head, if I remained silent, if I made enough sacrifices, we would find peace. How wrong I was.

All I did was give them the means to trample us, to crush me, to push Arya closer to her grave. And I failed. I failed my daughter. I died with only regret.

But now... now I have a second chance.

I wiped the back of my hand across my tear-streaked face, my nails digging into my palm. My grief was still raw, but beneath it, something else stirred—something sharper.

I wouldn't be silent again. I wouldn't let them take everything from me again.

"The company said that money was meant for me and my daughter!" My voice rang clear in the night, cutting through the whispers. My hands clenched into fists as I met Hannah's gaze, unyielding.

"That money is for Arya. It's to save her life!"

In my previous life, I had been weak—too weak. I was soft-spoken, withdrawn and hesitant, making it easy for Hannah to twist the truth. She paraded herself around as the perfect mother-in-law, fabricating stories of her generosity and kindness. To others, she was a hardworking widow who graciously took care of her late son's wife and child.

I knew the truth. But I had never been good with words, never defended myself. And in my silence, her lies became the truth everyone believed.

But not this time. For Arya, for myself, I had to cast aside my hesitation.

I had no physical strength. No one to rely on. If I begged behind closed doors, like I had done in my past life, it would only invite more suffering. Pleading in the shadows had earned me nothing but Hannah's disdain and Milana's taunts.

But people were drawn to the weak. If I appeared pitiful enough, their sympathy would turn into a weapon against Hannah. I would make her own reputation work against her.

And she did not disappoint. Hannah's face contorted in rage, her brows knitting together as she raised her hand.

The slap landed hard against my cheek, a sharp crack splitting the air. My head snapped to the side, my vision blurring for a second. A metallic taste flooded my mouth. Before I could recover, she spat at me, her saliva hitting my sleeve, as if the very sight of me disgusted her.

"Ha! Who do you think you are?" she shouted. "Who hasn't been sick before? That wretched girl isn't anything special and you expect me to take her to a hospital? Don't even dream about it!"

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

For a moment, silence hung in the air as her cruel words settled. Then the murmurs began, growing louder with each second.

Milana's eyes flickered with unease. She grabbed Hannah's sleeve, tugging it lightly. "Mom, maybe we should—"

Hannah realized her mistake too late. Her expression shifted, her mouth opening as if to explain.

But I didn't give her the chance. I forced myself forward, crawling on my knees toward the villagers. The ground was rough, scraping against my skin, but I didn't stop. Instead, I banged my forehead against the packed dirt, my voice breaking as I sobbed.

"Please help me! Help me save my daughter! She's already unconscious—if this continues, she'll die! She's only three years old! She's just a child! My daughter—sob..."

The sobs racked through me, my body shaking violently. My nails dug into the earth, my shoulders heaving. The dirt beneath me grew damp with tears.

The villagers stirred, shifting uncomfortably. They often quarreled among themselves over land or livestock, but at their core, they were kind people. And no one, no matter how callous, could remain indifferent to a mother's despair.

A voice finally cut through the murmuring. "Hannah, your granddaughter is sick and you refuse to get her treated? Isn't that too much?"

"Yeah!" another voice chimed in, sharper, angrier. "Erin gives you Julian's pension every month and you won't even pay for Arya's medicine? How could you be so heartless?"

"Now that you mention it," an older woman mused, narrowing her eyes, "I always wondered why Erin looked so thin despite receiving a decent pension each month."

The one who spoke was one of Hannah's longtime rivals. The two had argued over everything—from whose chickens laid the most eggs to whose rice was whiter. It wasn't surprising that she would take the chance to humiliate Hannah now. But her words struck a nerve and soon, others followed.

"You know," another added, "I've often smelled meat cooking from their house. Hannah and Milana look well-fed while Erin..."

Their voices trailed off, but their expressions said it all. Their gazes drifted over me—my thin frame, my hollowed cheeks, the way my ribs showed beneath my worn-out clothes. I looked nothing like a widow receiving a generous pension.

Hannah's face turned pale. Then red.

"I—You—" she sputtered, her lips trembling. She wasn't used to being questioned, especially not like this.

Finally, she clenched her jaw and snapped, "Mind your own business! If you're so worried, why don't you pay for the girl's treatment yourselves? I don't believe anyone would waste their money on a useless girl!"

Silence fell. A few villagers lowered their gazes, shifting uncomfortably.

In this village, the belief that sons were more valuable than daughters still ran deep. Some of them, if they were in Hannah's position, might have done the same.

My heart clenched. I bit my lip, forcing fresh tears to spill. I was about to cry again, to press them further, when suddenly—

"The village chief is here!" someone shouted.

The crowd parted as the sound of hurried footsteps approached. Then, a firm voice cut through the tension.

"What's going on here?"

I lifted my head just in time to see the village chief stepping forward. His dark brows were furrowed, his hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the scene. Though older, his posture was straight, his presence commanding.

A kind villager quickly stepped up, explaining the situation in hushed yet urgent tones.

Sensing my chance, I clutched at the hem of my tattered sleeve, forcing my voice to tremble. My tears fell freely, streaking down my dirt-smeared face.

"Sir, please help me!" I sobbed, my voice hoarse. "They already refuse to feed Arya and me and now Arya is dying!"

I turned my tear-streaked face up toward him, my expression raw with desperation. "I do all the work in this house, but Julian's pension money goes straight to them! They're trying to kill us!"

The murmurs surged again, louder this time. And in that moment, I saw it—the flicker of hesitation in Hannah's eyes.

She knew she was losing control of the narrative. And this time, I wouldn't let her take it back.

"I always thought that since Julian was gone, it was my duty to be filial in his place. But look at how they're treating us! If this continues, I might as well split from this family!"

The words echoed through the crowd and for a moment, silence hung thick in the air.

In my previous life, I had thought about this too—about leaving, about breaking free from this suffocating family. But back then, separating from one's in-laws was no simple matter. It was seen as an act of defiance, a blatant rejection of filial piety, the very foundation of this village's values.

If I had spoken these words in my previous life, I would have been scorned, ridiculed and driven into an even worse situation.

I wasn't originally from this village. I had no childhood friends here, no relatives to stand by me. If I severed ties with the Hunter family, who would help me? If I encountered trouble, who would listen to my side of the story?

So, I had endured. For years, I swallowed their abuse, telling myself that staying was my only option. That at least by being part of this family, I had a roof over my head and a place to exist, even if that place was at the bottom.

But now, after being reincarnated, I knew the truth. They would never let me live in peace. As long as I remained, they would continue draining me dry, treating me as nothing more than an unpaid servant. And sooner or later, whether from hunger, exhaustion, or despair, I would die in this house, just like I had before.

I refused to let that happen again.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The villagers exchanged uncertain glances, some murmuring in hushed voices. No one had expected me to bring up separation.

Milana was the first to react. Her body tensed, her fingers clutching the hem of her sleeve tightly before she blurted, "No! You can't split from the family!"

Her voice was too shrill, too urgent. She had panicked.

Realizing her mistake, she quickly schooled her expression into one of sorrow and concern, softening her tone. "Erin, even though my brother is gone, we're still family. That will never change. If you insist on separating, that's unfilial!"

She lowered her gaze slightly, her lashes trembling as she spoke, as if heartbroken over my so-called betrayal.

Her words struck where they were meant to. The villagers, still bound by tradition, hesitated.

A few elders furrowed their brows, whispering among themselves. No one in the village had ever split from their in-laws before. It was an unthinkable notion, one that went against the natural order of things.

I knew separation wouldn't be easy. I hadn't expected them to support me immediately. That wasn't my goal.

The most pressing matter right now was Arya.

I took a deep breath, ignoring the growing murmurs and declared with unwavering resolve, "I want to separate! I don't need anything else—I just want the room I live in and my dowry jewelry box!"

The second those words left my lips, Hannah's entire demeanor shifted. Her face darkened, her knuckles tightening as her fingers dug into her palms. Her body stiffened like a predator sensing danger.

Milana, however, remained impassive, her brows barely twitching.

That reaction told me everything I needed to know. Hannah was aware of what was inside my dowry jewelry box. Milana wasn't.

Milana had likely never paid attention to it before, believing it insignificant. But Hannah—she had known. She had known all along.

I straightened my back despite my trembling limbs and continued, my voice calm yet cutting, "That jewelry box contains the belongings my adoptive mother left me. She entrusted it to you for safekeeping and now that I need it, please return it to me."

Hannah's glare sharpened into something vicious. If we had been alone, she would have struck me by now, just as she had so many times before. But we weren't alone now.

In my previous life, just one withering look from her would have made me shrink back. I would have cowered, apologized and tried to smooth things over. Not this time.

A familiar voice piped up from the crowd—Hannah's rival, the same woman who had questioned her earlier.

"Oh my, a dowry jewelry box?" she said, tilting her head as if recalling something. "I remember Hannah saying something like—oh right! She claimed Erin was dirt poor and that she didn't ask for a single cent in bride price from Erin's parent."

She let out a dramatic gasp, raising a hand to her mouth in mock surprise. "Looks like she did ask for something and it's quite valuable after all."

Her words were like a spark to dry kindling. The crowd immediately came alive with speculation.

"What's in the jewelry box?"

"Why does she care so much about it?"

"If Erin's family was as poor as Hannah claimed, why would they leave behind a dowry jewelry box?"

Hannah's face twisted in fury.

"You old hag! Stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong!" she snapped, her voice shrill.

Her rival merely scoffed, crossing her arms. "Touchy, aren't we? Makes me wonder if you've been hiding something all these years."

Hannah's patience snapped. "You—!"

And just like that, the two women were bickering fiercely, their insults flying back and forth like daggers. The villagers watched with varying expressions—some amused, some scandalized, others simply entertained by the unexpected drama.

I could have let them argue longer, letting Hannah continue to ruin her own image. But I had more important things to do.

A deep, commanding voice suddenly cut through the noise. "Enough!"

The village chief's roar was like thunder, silencing the chaos in an instant.

The crowd parted again as he stepped forward, his sharp eyes sweeping over the scene with an air of authority.

I took the chance to press forward.

"Hannah," I said, my voice firm. "Don't tell me you're refusing to return it?"

Her lips trembled, her nostrils flaring. Before she could snap back, Milana's voice rang out.

"Erin, have you lost your mind today?" she hissed, her patience finally slipping. "You married into our family, so everything of yours belongs to us!"

Her voice dripped with entitlement, her posture rigid with suppressed anger. Unlike Hannah, she wasn't trying to save face anymore. She didn't care what was in the jewelry box. All she knew was that it was mine and therefore, I wasn't allowed to have it.

I let out a quiet, bitter chuckle. She truly was spoiled to the core.

"What's mine is mine," I said coldly. "If you refuse to return it, I'll call the police and have them handle it."

Hannah wasn't afraid of the police. She had spent years manipulating and controlling every aspect of this household without consequence. But the village chief? His face paled, a flicker of unease passing through his eyes.

Calling the police was no trivial matter. It would affect the village's reputation. And for someone like the village chief, whose position and prestige were built on maintaining peace and order, this was a nightmare.

If the news spread, his chances of winning any awards—recognition that brought honor and benefits to his name—would be completely ruined.

A muscle twitched in his jaw as he took a deep breath and finally stepped forward. "Hannah," he said, his tone heavy with authority, "since it's something Erin's mother left behind, you should return it to her."

Hannah's hands clenched at her sides. Her nails, yellowed with age and work, dug deep into her palms. Her body trembled with barely contained fury, but she didn't dare to lash out—not in front of the village chief. Instead, she swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat, her eyes burning with reluctant fury as she took a step back.

"Fine!" she spat through gritted teeth. "This is all about getting Arya treated, isn't it? I'll pay for it!"

With a sharp motion, she dug into her pocket, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and flicked it at me with a scowl.

The thin piece of paper fluttered through the air. But before it could reach me, a hand shot out, intercepting it midair.

"Mom! You can't give it to her!"