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Chapter 2
When my body hit the ground, a colleague found me, and the boss immediately called an ambulance.
But I already knew, it was over. I was dead.
I watched from somewhere else, unseen, as my husband’s hair turned snow-white in a single night.
Every day, he sat clutching my photo, refusing to cook, refusing to work. Not even my son’s furious shouting could move him.
My son? He had other priorities. He dragged my body to the boss’s shop and dumped it there, leaving it to rot for two days.
When the boss didn’t immediately cough up money, my son escalated. He hung banners, screamed outside the store, and made sure everyone in the area knew.
Finally, the boss broke. Fifty thousand dollars. That’s how much it took for him to buy back his peace.
My son walked away beaming, pockets full of blood money, and spent it all on expensive meals and gifts for his wife and kid. Not once did he look back.
My body? Still lying there, abandoned in the street.
It wasn’t until a stranger took pity on me and called my husband that he came to collect me. Quietly, he arranged for my cremation and laid me to rest. Then, standing at my tombstone, he smashed his head against it. He didn’t survive.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back. My son’s sophomore year.
He had just started secretly dating a girl, and his living expenses were already spiraling out of control.
This time, though, things were different. My husband and I still had some savings, and we hadn’t yet retired. Life was hard, but we were managing.
I wouldn’t let it all slip through my fingers again. I didn’t want to destroy my son’s life—but I wouldn’t let him destroy ours either.
My plan was simple. Ruin his credit score.
No loans. No debt. No way for him to trap us in his mess again.
When he graduated, he’d be on his own.
Three months before graduation, he came home with Emily.
She stood in the doorway, eyes downcast, hands folded protectively over a slightly rounded belly.
“Hello, Auntie,” she whispered.
Behind her, my son came in grinning, a large bag of baby supplies slung over his shoulder.
“Mom! Dad! This is Emily—your future daughter-in-law!” He practically beamed with pride.
Then, nudging her forward, he added, “Go on, say hi. Don’t be shy. My parents are great. They’ll take good care of you!”
I raised a hand to stop her.
“Not so fast,” I said evenly. “You’re not married yet. If word gets out, people will think we’re rude for not respecting tradition.”
I smiled politely. “Come in, dear. Sit down. I’ll get you some fruit.”
At the table, Emily’s nervous glances at my son didn’t go unnoticed. Neither did the occasional retching noises she tried to stifle.
I pretended not to see, but my son couldn’t hold back.
“Mom,” he said, his voice urgent, “we’re here because we need to talk about the wedding. Emily’s pregnant—with your grandson!”
Ah, yes. That grandson.
In my last life, he never called me Grandma. He treated me like garbage, ignoring me at best, kicking or spitting on me at worst.
At the time, I blamed myself. Maybe I’d worked too much, neglected him, or failed to bond like other grandmothers. But now, with a second chance, I saw the truth.
This sweet, innocent Emily wasn’t as simple as she seemed.
“You’ve always told me to be a responsible man,” my son continued, puffing out his chest. “I need to step up for my family.”
Responsible? Sure. For them. Not for me or his father. In my last life, he couldn’t even handle my burial properly.
“When are you and Dad free? I’ll talk to Emily’s parents and set a date.”
I gave him a faint smile. “We’re free whenever. Just let us know.”