My best friend, Lila, and I married brothers. A year later, we were both pregnant. Then came the bombshell: the hospital diagnosed her unborn son with Supermale Syndrome. The internet exploded, begging her to terminate. She refused. Her son grew up a prodigy, a sweet, brilliant boy who made a mockery of all the online hate. My son? He was born a monster. He bled me dry, destroyed my family, and when I finally cut him off, he stabbed me eighteen times for the deed to my house. As I lay dying, Lila smirked, thanking me for raising her perfect boy. They’d swapped our sons at birth. Now, my eyes snap open. I’m back. Back on the day of the diagnosis. 1 I’ve been reborn on the day my best friend’s son was diagnosed with Supermale Syndrome. Lila and I are in the back of my husband's car. She’s beaming, holding up her prenatal report, ready to post it online and show off. “My son has an extra male chromosome. You know what that means? He’s going to be the manliest of men.” She’d just finished typing out her caption when I reached over and stopped her. Lila shot me an irritated look. “Clara, what are you doing? Are you jealous my son is special?” I took a deep breath, keeping my voice gentle. “Lila, are you crazy? We’re influencers now, remember? Your baby’s genetics are incredible, but what if you post this and it stirs up a storm of jealousy? People get nuts online. What if some creep gets obsessed, finds us, and tries something? We’d never see it coming.” My words hit their mark. Lila’s expression shifted, and she grabbed my hand. “Clara, you’re so right. Thank you for looking out for me. You’re my best friend, truly. I knew marrying into the same family meant we’d always have each other’s backs.” I fought the urge to recoil, gently pulling my hand away. A wave of relief washed over me as she put her phone away, abandoning her plan to brag about her “supermale” baby. Over the past year, Lila and I had built a decent following online. The gimmick of two best friends marrying two brothers was a hit. We shared snippets of our daily lives, and our channel, with its hundred-thousand-plus followers, became a source of envy for many. In my last life, when she posted that video, she was met with a tidal wave of ridicule. The entire internet pleaded with her to abort the child. But our mother-in-law, Martha, encouraged her, and Lila defiantly announced to the world that her son would be smarter and more devoted than any normal child. The internet waited, hungry for drama. But the joke was on them. Lila’s son was born and he was… perfect. He was a gentle, obedient child, a straight-A student who topped his class with seemingly no effort. He became a living, breathing “I told you so” to the entire internet. Riding the wave of this narrative—"The Genius Son with Supermale Syndrome"—Lila became a viral sensation, raking in tens of thousands a month. And me? My son was born a monster. The lies started at five. In kindergarten, he slipped razor blades into a little girl’s lunch, nearly slicing her tongue off. My husband, Adam, and I paid her family over twenty thousand dollars. When he started elementary school, he became the ringleader of a vicious bullying campaign. His grades were abysmal. We bounced between six different schools in six years, paying out over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in settlements for the kids he intentionally hurt. Our savings were wiped out. Even then, we didn’t give up on him. I quit my job, dedicating every waking moment to guiding him, trying to nurture some seed of goodness within him. It was useless. After a few desperate, harsh punishments, he seemed to straighten up. We allowed ourselves a sliver of hope, thinking maybe, just maybe, we were turning a corner. Then he raped a four-year-old girl. And killed her. He came home afterward as if nothing had happened, cool and calm, until the police knocked on our door. Adam and I felt our hair turn grey overnight. In that moment, I wanted him locked away forever. I wanted him to get the death penalty, to give that little girl’s family some semblance of justice. We decided to sell our house to pay the damages. But before we could, the girl’s family took their own revenge. They broke into our home and killed Adam. I was on the phone with 911 when my son, who had snuck back into the house, attacked me. Eighteen stabs. As my life bled out onto the floor, I saw him run into Lila’s arms, crying, “Mommy.” Lila looked down at me, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. “Thank you, Clara,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sincerity, “for taking such good care of my son all these years.” That’s when I understood. She had switched our babies in the hospital nursery. And Martha, our mother-in-law, who always pretended to treat us equally, helped them cover it all up. She fed the media a story, painting Adam and me as abusive parents, claiming our cruelty had twisted the boy’s already fragile nature. After our deaths, we were vilified online. People even started to pity the monster who killed us. Then Lila stepped forward, the benevolent savior. She made a public statement, her voice thick with fake emotion, promising to take in the “troubled boy” and ensure he never harmed anyone again. The internet lauded her as a saint. Her follower count skyrocketed. I hated them. The rage was a fire in my soul, a screaming, endless inferno. Perhaps God, or whatever force governs the universe, felt that fire. Because it sent me back. I looked at Lila, her face aglow with smug satisfaction, and offered a faint smile. “Exactly. So let’s just keep this quiet until the babies are born.” I wasn’t a saint. I wasn’t going to save the world from this unborn terror. No, I was going to let Lila reap what she sowed. I was going to watch as her precious son tore her life apart, piece by bloody piece. 2 We arrived home shortly after. The moment we walked through the door, Martha rushed to greet us, her voice loud and grating. “What did the doctor say? Two grandsons, I hope?” I frowned. I knew I was having a boy, but I would have loved a girl just as much. Martha’s blatant preference for sons always rubbed me the wrong way. Lila, however, proudly handed the prenatal report to Martha. “I don’t know about Clara—she was too embarrassed to say—but I’ve got a guaranteed boy in here. And not just any boy. He’s a supermale!” Martha looked confused. “A supermale? What’s that?” “It’s exactly what it sounds like,” Lila puffed out her chest. “More male than the average male. The ultimate man, the alpha of alphas!” Martha’s face split into a wide, greedy grin. She stared at Lila’s stomach as if it were solid gold. Then her eyes drifted to me, and her expression soured. “Hmph. Too embarrassed to say. Must not be my precious grandson, then.” I didn’t bother to correct her. She took my silence as confirmation and stomped off to the kitchen. Lila’s eyes glinted as she turned to “comfort” me. “It’s okay, Clara. We’re best friends, remember? My son is your son too. When he grows up to be successful, he’ll take care of his favorite aunt.” In my past life, those words would have moved me to tears. Now, I just gave her a weak smile, not missing the flicker of calculation in her eyes. I knew exactly what she was thinking. Adam and I had worked hard, saved up, and managed to put a down payment on a house in a good school district. Lila was already planning on how that house would one day belong to her son. It wasn't until after I died in my past life, when Lila eagerly transferred the deed to her name, that I finally understood the depth of her scheming. She’d sent that monster to kill me because she was afraid I’d sell the house to compensate the little girl's family. A cold smirk touched my lips. In this life, her plans were destined to go up in flames. 3 Adam dropped us off and headed back to work. He wouldn’t be home until dinner. With both Lila and I pregnant, Martha had taken over all the cooking. Before she started, Echo, Martha’s youngest daughter and our sister-in-law, came to ask what we wanted to eat. I never cared much for Echo. She was moody and difficult, and after a few failed attempts to be friendly, I’d given up. Besides, in my last life, she was one of the people who testified to the media that I’d abused the boy. Oddly enough, she and Lila got along famously. “I’m in the mood for something spicy,” I said casually. Echo immediately turned to Lila. Their conversation was perfectly audible from the living room. Lila wanted sour. So I quickly added, “Could you make ours separately? I really can’t stomach anything sour right now.” Without even looking at me, Echo mumbled, “Got it,” and disappeared into the kitchen to relay the message. Martha bustled around for a while, and by the time Adam got home, dinner was ready. As she placed the last dish on the table, my face was darker than the bottom of a burnt pot. Before me sat a spread of sour cabbage fish, pickled green beans, and a pitcher of plum juice. The only non-sour dish was a plate of steamed vegetables… sprinkled liberally with green onions. In the year I had lived with this family, everyone knew I detested green onions. The smell alone was enough to make me gag. This wasn’t an oversight. This was a message. Adam noticed I hadn’t picked up my chopsticks. “What’s wrong?” I said nothing, but a smug smile flashed across Lila’s face. She took a large bite of the fish, sighing in satisfaction. “Mom, this is delicious! Thank you! Clara, why aren’t you eating? Is Mom’s cooking not to your taste?” The smile on Martha’s face vanished, replaced by a scowl. “I slave away all day, cleaning and cooking for you two, and this is the thanks I get? Lila’s the only one who appreciates it. If you don’t want to eat, then someone else can do the cooking from now on!” Echo, picking at her food, chimed in with a sneer. “You should be grateful you have food to eat at all. So picky. If you don’t like it, go call your own mother to cook for you. Such a drama queen.” The passive-aggressive remarks sent a jolt of fury through me. Adam saw the storm brewing in my eyes and was about to intervene, but I shot to my feet. The sudden movement startled everyone at the table. “I have lived in this house for a year,” I began, my voice dangerously calm. “I have said countless times that I hate green onions, yet you put them in everything. Fine. I can order my own food. But since I got pregnant, you’ve insisted that takeout is unhealthy and that I have to eat what you make.” My voice rose. “I told you before dinner I wanted spicy. Forget spicy, the one dish that isn’t sour is covered in the one thing you know I can’t eat. Are you trying to force me to eat sour? And after all that, you have the nerve to call me a drama queen? What, did I marry into this family just to be treated like I don’t exist?” I’d always been the quiet, agreeable one. “Sweet” was the word people used to describe me. For the past year, I had swallowed every minor injustice, every little slight, just to keep the peace. But not anymore. I’d already died once. I was done being quiet. No one, not a single person at that table, had expected this from me. Humiliated by my public defiance, Martha’s face turned beet red. Her voice boomed like a foghorn. “So now I’m wrong for cooking for you? It’s food, isn’t it? You kids have it too easy! When I was your age, we were lucky to have wild vegetables, and we ate every last scrap! This nonsense about not eating onions or sour food… who do you think you are, a princess?” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “Did you like eating wild vegetables, or did you just have no other choice? My parents spoiled me rotten. They cooked whatever I wanted. Your past hardships have absolutely nothing to do with me, so don’t you dare try to lecture me. My husband and I pay for the groceries in this house. So yes, I think I’m entitled to a spicy meal!” At the mention of money, Martha flinched. “So what if your husband is successful?” she muttered, her confidence wavering. “I worked my fingers to the bone to raise him. He owes me that much!” Lila’s husband, Jake, who had recently been laid off and was unemployed, stared grimly at his plate. My husband, Adam, feeling for his brother, had been covering all the household expenses. I turned my gaze on them. “Show me the law that says a man has to support his entire extended family. Are you all so comfortable living off us for free?” My words hit their targets. Not just Jake, but Echo too, looked deeply uncomfortable. Adam grabbed my arm, hissing, “Groceries don’t cost that much. Drop it.” I let out another cold laugh. Honestly, as long as his family wasn’t involved, Adam was a decent husband. But his fierce, almost blind loyalty to them was the reason I had endured so much from his mother in my past life. Well, I was done enduring. I looked my husband dead in the eye and spoke, each word a shard of ice. “If you dare side with them today, Adam, tomorrow we are getting divorced.”
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