In my previous life, I had been weak—too weak. I was soft-spoken, withdrawn and hesitant, making it easy for Hannah to twist the truth. She paraded herself around as the perfect mother-in-law, fabricating stories of her generosity and kindness. To others, she was a hardworking widow who graciously took care of her late son's wife and child.
I knew the truth. But I had never been good with words, never defended myself. And in my silence, her lies became the truth everyone believed.
But not this time. For Arya, for myself, I had to cast aside my hesitation.
I had no physical strength. No one to rely on. If I begged behind closed doors, like I had done in my past life, it would only invite more suffering. Pleading in the shadows had earned me nothing but Hannah's disdain and Milana's taunts.
But people were drawn to the weak. If I appeared pitiful enough, their sympathy would turn into a weapon against Hannah. I would make her own reputation work against her.
And she did not disappoint. Hannah's face contorted in rage, her brows knitting together as she raised her hand.
The slap landed hard against my cheek, a sharp crack splitting the air. My head snapped to the side, my vision blurring for a second. A metallic taste flooded my mouth. Before I could recover, she spat at me, her saliva hitting my sleeve, as if the very sight of me disgusted her.
"Ha! Who do you think you are?" she shouted. "Who hasn't been sick before? That wretched girl isn't anything special and you expect me to take her to a hospital? Don't even dream about it!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
For a moment, silence hung in the air as her cruel words settled. Then the murmurs began, growing louder with each second.
Milana's eyes flickered with unease. She grabbed Hannah's sleeve, tugging it lightly. "Mom, maybe we should—"
Hannah realized her mistake too late. Her expression shifted, her mouth opening as if to explain.
But I didn't give her the chance. I forced myself forward, crawling on my knees toward the villagers. The ground was rough, scraping against my skin, but I didn't stop. Instead, I banged my forehead against the packed dirt, my voice breaking as I sobbed.
"Please help me! Help me save my daughter! She's already unconscious—if this continues, she'll die! She's only three years old! She's just a child! My daughter—sob..."
The sobs racked through me, my body shaking violently. My nails dug into the earth, my shoulders heaving. The dirt beneath me grew damp with tears.
The villagers stirred, shifting uncomfortably. They often quarreled among themselves over land or livestock, but at their core, they were kind people. And no one, no matter how callous, could remain indifferent to a mother's despair.
A voice finally cut through the murmuring. "Hannah, your granddaughter is sick and you refuse to get her treated? Isn't that too much?"
"Yeah!" another voice chimed in, sharper, angrier. "Erin gives you Julian's pension every month and you won't even pay for Arya's medicine? How could you be so heartless?"
"Now that you mention it," an older woman mused, narrowing her eyes, "I always wondered why Erin looked so thin despite receiving a decent pension each month."
The one who spoke was one of Hannah's longtime rivals. The two had argued over everything—from whose chickens laid the most eggs to whose rice was whiter. It wasn't surprising that she would take the chance to humiliate Hannah now. But her words struck a nerve and soon, others followed.
"You know," another added, "I've often smelled meat cooking from their house. Hannah and Milana look well-fed while Erin..."
Their voices trailed off, but their expressions said it all. Their gazes drifted over me—my thin frame, my hollowed cheeks, the way my ribs showed beneath my worn-out clothes. I looked nothing like a widow receiving a generous pension.
Hannah's face turned pale. Then red.
"I—You—" she sputtered, her lips trembling. She wasn't used to being questioned, especially not like this.
Finally, she clenched her jaw and snapped, "Mind your own business! If you're so worried, why don't you pay for the girl's treatment yourselves? I don't believe anyone would waste their money on a useless girl!"
Silence fell. A few villagers lowered their gazes, shifting uncomfortably.
In this village, the belief that sons were more valuable than daughters still ran deep. Some of them, if they were in Hannah's position, might have done the same.
My heart clenched. I bit my lip, forcing fresh tears to spill. I was about to cry again, to press them further, when suddenly—
"The village chief is here!" someone shouted.
The crowd parted as the sound of hurried footsteps approached. Then, a firm voice cut through the tension.
"What's going on here?"
I lifted my head just in time to see the village chief stepping forward. His dark brows were furrowed, his hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the scene. Though older, his posture was straight, his presence commanding.
A kind villager quickly stepped up, explaining the situation in hushed yet urgent tones.
Sensing my chance, I clutched at the hem of my tattered sleeve, forcing my voice to tremble. My tears fell freely, streaking down my dirt-smeared face.
"Sir, please help me!" I sobbed, my voice hoarse. "They already refuse to feed Arya and me and now Arya is dying!"
I turned my tear-streaked face up toward him, my expression raw with desperation. "I do all the work in this house, but Julian's pension money goes straight to them! They're trying to kill us!"
The murmurs surged again, louder this time. And in that moment, I saw it—the flicker of hesitation in Hannah's eyes.
She knew she was losing control of the narrative. And this time, I wouldn't let her take it back.
