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!"
