Reborn The Factory Director's Wife Wants a Divorce

For miles around, everyone knew me as the epitome of a virtuous wife. Capable, accommodating, endlessly patient.

When Justin Farley's widowed sister-in-law, Brooklyn Simmons, brought her son to stay with us, her gaze lingered greedily on the master bedroom.

"This room is so spacious, so bright," she murmured. "If we could stay here, perhaps Tommy could forget the pain of losing his father, just for a little while..."

Justin hesitated, conflict flickering in his eyes. I didn't wait for him to choose. I simply smiled, gathered my bedding, and moved toward the door.

"It's fine. I'll squeeze in with my son."

The heaviest snow of the year fell today. Justin took the factory vehicle to pick up our son, Carter, from school.

But when Brooklyn's son started wailing about the cold, the car suddenly didn't have enough room. Only two passenger seats.

My son didn't argue. He smiled—heartbreakingly understanding for a child—and shouldered his backpack, stepping into the white drifts.

"It's okay, Dad. I can walk home."

The neighbors praised me as a saint and marveled at how sensible my son was. I only smiled. They didn't know the truth: my son and I had both been reborn.

In my previous life, Justin's blatant favoritism toward Brooklyn and Tommy drove me to divorce him. Shortly after I left, Carter was diagnosed with leukemia. Desperate, I swallowed my pride and begged Justin for money, begged him to find a bone marrow match.

He accused me of faking the illness to extort him and kicked me out.

In this life, I no longer hoped for his love. I didn't want his heart. I only wanted him to fulfill his duty as a father—to secure the resources my son deserved. To ensure Carter survived.

——

When Carter finally stumbled through the door, slush filled his shoes and his clothes were soaked through. His small face was flushed crimson, his skin burning—just like before.

Yet he forced the corners of his mouth up. "I'm fine, Mom. Don't worry."

My chest tightened. Tears pricked my eyes as I peeled the wet clothes from his shivering body and fed him fever reducers. Memories of our past life crashed over me.

Back then, Carter hadn't given up his seat. He'd insisted on coming home because he felt unwell. Justin decided he was throwing a tantrum. To "teach him a lesson," he dumped our sick son at the school, leaving him in the freezing cold five miles away for the entire night.

By the time I found him, sobbing and hysterical, he was unconscious with a high fever.

I glanced at the paper on the nightstand—Carter's diagnosis report. Fortunately, this time, we were early.

In this life, love was irrelevant. As long as Justin provided a bone marrow match for our son, I would endure anything.

Darkness had settled when Justin finally returned with Brooklyn and Tommy.

He walked in carrying bags of gifts, trailing the rich scent of spicy hotpot. It clashed violently with the sterile smell of rubbing alcohol in our room.

Justin caught my eye and looked away. "It was too cold today," he muttered, "so I took Brooklyn and Tommy out for a quick meal."

He paused. "You know how it is. She's been raising the boy alone for years. It hasn't been easy. And Tommy isn't like Carter—he's frail. He hasn't eaten well since he was a baby..."

I remained silent.

I simply looked at Tommy. Sturdy, round-faced, glowing with health—a stark contrast to my pale, shivering son.

A flicker of smugness passed through Brooklyn's eyes. She patted her son's head, effortlessly assuming the air of the hostess.

"Tommy, be a good boy. Share the toys Dad Farley bought with your little brother."

Tommy clutched the two identical toy cars to his chest and threw himself onto the floor, kicking and wailing.

"No! Dad Farley bought these for me! They're mine!"

Brooklyn feigned a scolding tone, looking at me with practiced helplessness. "I'm so sorry, Ava. Justin spoils him terribly..."

Instinctively, I looked at Carter. In the past, this was when he would cry, hurt by the injustice.

But now, his expression was eerily calm.

"Carter doesn't want them," he said flatly. "Leave them for Big Brother."

Pain sliced through my heart. He had learned the hardest lesson too young: an unloved child has no use for tears.

A flash of guilt crossed Justin's face. He stepped toward me as if to offer a hug.

I turned sideways, grabbing a cloth to wipe the table, neatly dodging his touch.

The guilt in his eyes hardened into displeasure.

"Since when did you become so petty?" he snapped. "Why are you holding a grudge against a child?"