“No no no!”
Matthew shook his head hard, his small finger jabbing toward me, eyes full of disgust：
“She yells at me! And she won't let me have ice cream! Aunt Sara never yells at me, and she buys me lots and lots of toys! I want Aunt Sara to be my mommy!”
I said nothing. I turned and walked into Matthew's bedroom.
Ten minutes later, I came back out dragging a small Ultraman suitcase and set it down at Oliver's feet.
“His change of clothes and allergy medication are inside. He needs to hold the blue teddy bear when he sleeps or he'll cry. Absolutely no mangoes or seafood. He'll break out in a rash.”
Oliver's face went white. He seized my wrist.
“Vivian, what the hell is this? You're using our son to get back at me?”
“I'm not getting back at anyone.”
I pulled free of his grip, calm and steady. A ring of red already circled my wrist.
“Since he likes Sara better, let him go with you. Perfect. Your happy little family of three, all together.”
Oliver was shaking with rage：
“What did you just say? He's your own flesh and blood! How can those words even come out of your mouth?”
“Vivian, you really are getting more cold-blooded by the day!”
Matthew joined in, yelling：
“Yeah! Bad mommy is cold-blooded! I don't want you anymore! I'm going with Daddy and Aunt Sara!”
I tugged at the corner of my mouth：
“Sure. Then go.”
Oliver stared at me, eyes heavy with disappointment.
He thought I'd break down crying and beg him to stay, the way I always used to. He thought I was just throwing a tantrum.
But he didn't know I'd already died once.
When the heart dies, nothing matters anymore.
“Fine! You said it, not me! Don't come crying to me later!”
He scooped Matthew up, shot me one last vicious glare, and slammed the door on his way out.
The house went quiet all at once.
I walked to the window and watched Oliver's car pull out of the complex.
The headlights traced a cold arc through the darkness.
Then I took out my phone and sent my lawyer a message：
“Get the divorce agreement ready. I don't want a cent of the assets. Full custody to Oliver. As fast as possible.”
Three days later was my third wedding anniversary with Oliver.
In my last life, I'd started preparing a month in advance.
I baked his favorite cake by hand and bought the limited-edition watch he'd been talking about for ages.
I even wore the white dress he said I looked prettiest in.
He didn't come home until four in the morning, reeking of Sara's perfume, and told me：
“Sorry. Sara has a fever. I need to stay at the hospital with her.”
I asked him through tears：
“In your heart, who matters more? Me or her?”
He shoved me aside, irritated：
“Vivian, can you grow up? Sara has no one. She's completely alone. I can't just abandon her. You're my wife. You should understand.”
So this time around, I didn't prepare a thing.
Seven in the morning. The lock clicked.
Oliver was back, with Matthew in tow.
The moment Matthew walked through the door, he charged into the living room and hurled a pink stuffed bunny straight into my face.
“Bad mommy! Look! Aunt Sara bought this for me! It's prettier than any toy you ever got me!”
The bunny's ear caught the corner of my eye, a sharp, stinging flare of pain.
I picked up the stuffed bunny and tossed it into the trash can beside me.
Oliver's brow creased immediately：
“What are you doing? Sara picked that out for Matthew herself.”
I wiped the spot on my face where the toy had hit：
“Oh. I thought throwing it at me meant he didn't want it. Just helping him take out the trash.”
Oliver was too angry to speak.
