“Matthew, don't bite Mommy!”
“She's not my mommy!”
Matthew thrashed wildly, grabbed the ceramic cup from the table, and hurled it straight at me.
I raised my hand to block it on instinct.
The cup smashed against my wrist and shattered.
The jade bracelet fell with the broken shards, hitting the floor and splitting in two.
I stood frozen, staring at the wreckage scattered across the ground, every drop of blood in my body turning to ice.
Sara rushed over with a tissue to wipe my hand：
“Vivian, I'm so sorry, this is all my fault. Please don't be upset. Matthew's still little, he doesn't know any better.”
I lifted my head and looked at her, my gaze cold：
“He doesn't know any better. What's your excuse?”
“Sara, you stole my husband. You stole my son. And now you're taking the only thing my mother left me. Are you really that desperate for a man and a child?”
Her eyes reddened instantly, tears spilling down her cheeks like beads from a broken string：
“I didn't……”
“Vivian, I really didn't mean for any of this……”
Oliver walked in. The second he saw Sara crying, he strode over and pulled her behind him.
He pointed at me, voice a snarl：
“Vivian, what the hell is wrong with you now? Sara came here out of kindness to see Matthew, and you're screaming at her?”
I pointed at the broken bracelet on the floor. My voice shook no matter how hard I tried to steady it：
“So what if I yelled at her?”
“Oliver, open your eyes! This is the only thing my mother ever left me! And your son just smashed it to pieces!”
Oliver frowned, his face tight with impatience.
“It's just a bracelet. It's broken, so what? I'll buy you a better one tomorrow. Is that really worth making such a scene and reducing Sara to tears?”
I laughed. Laughed until tears ran down my face：
“In your eyes, my mother's keepsake is just a bracelet?”
“What else would it be?”
“A dead person's junk. Keeping it around is bad luck.”
He picked up Matthew, wrapped his arm around Sara's waist, and walked out without looking back.
At the doorway, Matthew turned and stuck his tongue out at me：
“Bad mommy! Serves you right!”
The door slammed shut with a “bang.”
History was repeating itself.
Every line of this life was tracing over the last one, perfectly aligned.
I crouched on the floor and picked up the shards of the bracelet, piece by piece.
A sharp edge sliced my finger. Blood dripped onto the floor, blooming like tiny roses.
For the first time, I felt it: a helplessness against fate that reached all the way to my bones.
That night at eight, my stomach started to hurt.
At first it was just a dull, distant ache.
I figured it was my old condition flaring up, so I dug through the medicine cabinet, found the antacids, and swallowed two with cold water.
But the pain didn't ease. It got worse.
Cold sweat rolled down my forehead, soaking through my pajamas in minutes.
I curled up on the couch, shaking from the pain.
I knew. Acute gastric perforation, same as before.
Exactly like my last life.
I dragged myself off the couch and tried to reach my phone to call an ambulance.
Two steps in, my legs buckled and I hit the floor hard.
The pain peaked in a single white-hot instant.
I clenched my teeth, pressed my palms flat against the floor, and inched toward the coffee table.
Every movement felt like something inside me was being torn loose.
Finally, my fingers found the phone.
I thought of my last life, left alone in this house by Oliver to die.
I took a deep breath and dialed 911.
I gave them the address. Then my grip gave out. The phone slipped from my hand and landed silently on the carpet.
The minutes crawled.
I lay on the floor, consciousness fraying at the edges.
Some stretch of time later, the wail of an ambulance siren cut through the silence outside the door.
I bit down hard and used the very last of my strength to pull myself up from the floor.
I braced myself against the wall and dragged my body toward the door, one step at a time.
The door opened.
But the people standing outside weren't paramedics in white coats.
They were four bodyguards in black suits, their faces blank.
The ambulance lights flashed behind them.
Several paramedics stood at the edge of the yard, held back by two more guards.
My heart dropped.
I gripped the doorframe, my voice barely there：
“Who……who are you? Let the paramedics in! I'm dying!”
The lead bodyguard looked at me without expression, his tone ice-cold：
“Ms. Mercer, Mr. Gilbert has instructed us to watch over you starting today. You are not to leave the house and cause trouble.”
I stared at him in disbelief：
“I'm not causing trouble! My stomach is perforated! I'm going to die! Let them in!”
“Mr. Gilbert told us you like to fake illnesses for sympathy. That you'll do anything to get your way.”
Another bodyguard scrunched his nose and looked me up and down：
“Pretty convincing act. If Mr. Gilbert hadn't warned us ahead of time, we might've actually bought it.”
“I'm not faking! I'm really dying!”
I lunged forward, trying to push past them, but two guards blocked me with their arms.
“Ms. Mercer, please cooperate. Go back inside and stay put.”
“If Mr. Gilbert finds out you snuck out to make a scene, we lose our pay for the month.”
Just then, the neighbor next door heard the commotion and poked her head out.
“What's going on? What's all this noise in the middle of the night?”
The lead bodyguard instantly switched to a polite smile：
“Sorry for the disturbance, ma'am.”
“The lady of the house has some mental health issues. She likes to run outside and call ambulances for fake emergencies. Mr. Gilbert had no choice but to station us here to keep her from bothering the other residents.”
The neighbor's expression changed immediately：
“So she's crazy? I was wondering why someone would call 911 in the middle of the night. Turns out it's all an act!”
“If you're sick in the head, stay home. Why come out and make everyone else suffer? What a waste of emergency resources!”
“What if someone actually needed that ambulance and you held it up? If somebody dies because of you, whose fault is that?”
Every word from the neighbor cut into me like a knife.
I opened my mouth, trying to explain.
But the pain was so severe I couldn't force out a single word.
All I could do was press both hands against my stomach and look at them, pleading with my eyes.
No one felt sorry for me.
The neighbors slammed their doors shut, still cursing under their breath.
The bodyguards talked the paramedics into leaving. The siren grew fainter and fainter until it disappeared into the night.
The lead bodyguard looked at me, his voice flat：
“Ms. Mercer, you can go back inside now.”
He shoved me.
I was already barely standing. The push sent me stumbling backward.
The door slammed shut with a “bang.”
Darkness swallowed me whole.
I tried to turn back for my phone, to call the police.
But the moment I turned, my vision went black.
I hit the floor hard.
Blood poured from the corner of my mouth, steady and warm, soaking into the white wool rug beneath me.
Right before my consciousness slipped away for good.
I thought I heard it again, from my last life. Oliver, stroking Matthew's head, his voice gentle：
“Sure. From now on, Aunt Sara will be your new mommy.”
So it didn't matter whether I was reborn or not.
I couldn't change a thing.
A book reads the same no matter how many times you open it. The ending never changes.
Midnight.
Oliver carried Matthew into the yard, laughing and chatting as they walked in.
“Daddy, the jade bracelet you bought Aunt Sara is so pretty! It's a million times prettier than bad mommy's ugly old bracelet!”
“Of course it is.”
Oliver laughed and ruffled his son's hair：
“As long as Aunt Sara likes it, Daddy will buy her anything she wants. Good thing I had someone keeping an eye on your mom today, or she would've ruined Sara's birthday.”
“Yeah! Bad mommy is the worst!”
Oliver exchanged a glance with the bodyguards.
All six of them dispersed in an instant.
He pinched Matthew's chubby cheek with a grin, humming contentedly as he pressed his fingerprint to the lock.
The next second, father and son both screamed.
