While I was still healing from childbirth, my husband, Evan, was carried home from a karaoke lounge by a group of his friends. They weren't just carrying him; they were carrying a woman, too. He threw up all over the floor, and I quietly tended to him all night. I never imagined that the first words out of his mouth when he woke up would be, "She's pregnant. Let's get a divorce." I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just calmly nodded. In my last life, I had clutched my newborn daughter and raised hell, taking the fight all the way to the community council. The whole town soon knew the other woman was a tramp. Her family threw her out, and in her despair, she jumped into the river and drowned. Evan was fired from his job for the scandal. But he never blamed me. Instead, on our daughter's first birthday, he lit a fire in our yard and burned me, our child, and my parents alive. As I died, the last thing I saw was his twisted, terrifying smile. "All of you can go to hell and keep my Misty company." When I opened my eyes again, I was back in that moment, him telling me he wanted a divorce. 1 “Misty’s not like you, Sienna,” Evan said, his eyes bloodshot from the hangover. “Her family will kill her if they find out she’s pregnant out of wedlock. You can’t just stand by and watch her die, can you?” Beside him, the woman, Misty, whimpered softly and rolled over, her hand falling possessively onto Evan’s waist. The memories flooded my mind like a tidal wave. The searing agony of the fire felt like it was still scorching every nerve in my body. A violent tremor ran through me as I realized: I was reborn. Seeing my silence, Evan frowned. “I promise, after the baby is born and we get the birth certificate sorted, we’ll get remarried.” I dug my nails into my palms, forcing myself to stay calm. This time, there were no tears, no hysterics. Just a simple nod. “Fine. Let’s do it. Pack your things and go.” I didn’t expect his reply. “Misty’s pregnant. She can’t handle the stress of moving. I’ve already arranged for her things to be brought here this afternoon.” This house was company housing, assigned to me from my job. I had also been pregnant before we were married. My mother slapped me a dozen times, hard enough to make my lip bleed, and still, Evan never mentioned marriage. I was the one who had to force the issue, moving into his family’s home until his mother finally relented and let us get the license. We lived in a tiny brick shed at the edge of their yard, barely big enough for a bed. Through the dead of winter, heavily pregnant, I tended the fire, cooked, and served his entire family. He never once showed a shred of concern, just kept spinning tales of a glamorous, imaginary future to keep me placated. It was my father who couldn’t bear to see me suffer. He took early retirement so I could take over his city job, which was the only reason we were assigned this house with its own yard in the first place. And now, after cheating on me, he had the audacity to bring his mistress into my home. I never knew he could be so shameless. But the phantom burn of the flames was still vivid in my memory. I couldn't repeat the past. I didn’t argue. I just turned and walked away. Last night, when his so-called artist friends had carried him home, I’d tried to direct them to the spare bedroom. But one of them, a guy named Six, ignored me and hauled them both straight into the master bedroom. “What kind of wife makes her husband sleep in the guest room?” he’d sneered. I’d had no choice but to take our daughter and sleep in the spare room myself. It seemed now we would never be moving back. I gathered a few of our things and walked out of the house with my baby in my arms, heading straight for the public phone booth outside the downtown department store. I dialed the number from a crumpled piece of paper. Someone picked up almost immediately. “Do you mind that I have a child?” I asked, my voice steady. “If you don’t, then come and get me.” 2 The man on the phone was Alex, my childhood neighbor. He’d always told me I was beautiful and joked that he’d marry me when we grew up. But then he got caught up in some shady deals and ended up in prison. By the time he got out, I was already married to Evan. He never said a word, just had someone deliver a hundred-dollar bill as a wedding gift before he left town. That was a year ago. A few weeks back, his friend had given me that slip of paper with his cell number, telling me Alex was a small business owner now and that I could call him if I ever needed anything. The line was silent for a few seconds. Then, his voice, firm and clear. “Ten days. Wait for me.” I walked for a long time under the hot sun, my daughter in my arms, my face flushed from the heat but my heart frozen solid. Without realizing it, I found myself standing below my parents’ apartment building. They were sitting at their window, looking out at the world from the second floor. I quickly ducked into a corner, silent tears streaming down my face. In my last life, my mother had been vehemently against my relationship with Evan. She had yelled at me, even hit me. For a long time, I hated her for it, convinced she couldn’t be my real mother. I didn’t know how much she loved me until the day of the fire. When a burning beam fell from the ceiling, heading straight for me, she shoved me out of the way without a second thought. My father pushed me desperately toward the door, then turned back to my mother’s side. “Honey,” he told me, his eyes filled with tears, “Dad can’t let your mom go alone. She’s afraid of being lonely. And don’t you grieve for us. Your aunt and uncle… they’re your real parents. We just adopted you. Now listen to me, you have to live.” But every door in the house was locked. There was no escape. The fire consumed all four of us. My one wrong choice had led them, my adoptive parents, to a fiery grave for a daughter who wasn’t even their own blood. I didn't have the courage to face them now. Clutching my daughter, I ran all the way back home, tears blurring my vision. When I pushed open the gate, Evan’s deadbeat friends were already set up at a table in the yard, drinking. Six, in his leather jacket and bell-bottoms, was howling into a guitar. The noise startled my daughter, and she began to wail. “Make her stop crying,” Evan snapped, annoyed. “She’s ruining the mood.” Six just grinned. “Hey, sis-in-law, how about whipping us up some snacks? I love that stewed pork you make. Make a lot, okay?” Evan chimed in. “And make some chicken soup for Misty, to help with the pregnancy. Now go on, the baby’s crying is giving me a headache.” I bit my lip, said nothing, and carried my daughter into the house. 3 Evan had a stable job with the city’s seed company, but he was hardly ever there. He was a gifted painter—he’d painted the mural at the town’s train station, which had caused quite a stir and brought him into contact with this crowd of so-called “artists.” In reality, they were just a bunch of freeloaders who spent their days drinking and dancing at karaoke lounges, men and women messing around together. That’s where he met Misty, a singer at the lounge. After that, they made a habit of showing up at my house, expecting me to wait on them hand and foot. I’d complained to Evan about it before. “You just don’t understand art,” he’d said. “They’re my soulmates. We connect on a deeper level. I’m doing this for our family. When I’m a famous painter, you’ll be living the good life.” Before, because I loved him and wanted a future with him, I had endured it all. Now, there was no reason to suffer this humiliation. I went into the kitchen, made a simple bowl of egg noodles, and took it to my room to eat. After a long wait with no food appearing, Evan came in to find me. When he saw me eating alone, he flew into a rage and smashed the bowl on the floor. “You’re just stuffing your own face while the rest of us starve!” I soothed my crying daughter and met his furious gaze with a cold stare of my own. “Evan, we’re getting divorced tomorrow. I have no obligation to serve you or your friends.” He was taken aback. In all the time we’d been together, I had never spoken to him with such cold finality. A flicker of unease crossed his face, and his tone softened. “We agreed, didn’t we? We’ll remarry after Misty has the baby. It’s not a real divorce.” Before I could answer, his friends crowded into the room to stir the pot. “Whoa, what’s with the attitude? You don’t want your friends here? No need to be so rude about it. Evan, can’t you control your wife? What a pushover.” Misty’s eyes instantly filled with tears. “She’s not mad at you, she’s mad at me. I’m the one who’s not welcome here. Evan, don’t let me ruin your relationships. I’ll just go… I’ll go get rid of our baby.” Evan’s ego was his weak spot. Goaded by the crowd, his face flushed with shame and he lashed out, slapping me across the face. The force of the blow sent me sprawling from the chair to the floor. My daughter, still in my arms, fell with me, letting out a piercing, agonized shriek. I scrambled to pick her up, my heart seizing when I saw her face was turning a deep, alarming red. “Evan, her cry… it’s not right,” I said, panic rising. “I have to get her to the hospital!” I tried to run, but his friends blocked my way. Six sneered. “Kids fall all the time. They’re not that fragile.” I shot a desperate, furious look at Evan. “Tell them to move! Evan, she’s your daughter, too! Can you really just watch her be in danger?” My baby’s cries were growing weaker, her face turning from red to a terrifying shade of purplish-black. In a flash, I spun around, grabbed a pair of scissors from the table, and held them to Misty’s throat. “Let me pass, or I’ll kill her.” Misty’s face went white. She clutched her stomach and stumbled back. “Evan, I’m scared! My stomach hurts.”
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