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Chapter 4
What a mess.
In my last life, my son didn’t even bother to claim my body. To him, I was nothing more than an ATM, my worth measured by the cash I could provide.
We raised him for over two decades, yet he gave us less loyalty than a stray dog.
This time, I wasn’t going to let history repeat itself. Quietly, I moved most of our savings into an account only I knew about. No way was I leaving it for him to squander.
While out running errands, I spotted a young man selling balloons on the side of the road. His face was red from the biting wind, his thin black jacket doing little to protect him from the chill.
I stopped in my tracks.
It was him.
In my previous life, when everyone else turned their backs, this boy—a complete stranger—had been the one to show me kindness. He made sure my body wasn’t left to rot in the street.
His name was Ethan.
Back then, I’d learned about his life while wandering as a spirit. He had no parents, just an elderly grandmother who was constantly ill. Every spare moment he had was spent working odd jobs to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads.
Ethan was a sophomore, just like Michael. But where Michael wasted every opportunity, Ethan was brilliant. Top of his class, a scholarship student who never complained despite his struggles.
I couldn’t stand by. This time, I tracked down his school, reached out to his advisor, and quietly started helping him. He didn’t need to know it was me; I just wanted to make his life a little easier.
Meanwhile, Michael was back to being Michael. Less than a week after storming out, he invited us to a “family dinner” at a hotel.
I wanted to say no. I should have said no. But my husband—soft-hearted as always—insisted. “He’s still our son,” he said. “We can’t just ignore him.”
Fine. If my husband needed to see the truth, I’d let Michael show it to him.
The moment we walked into the private room, I wanted to turn around and leave.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke, the kind that clings to your clothes and makes your eyes burn.
A young man lounged at the table, his slicked-back hair glistening with too much product. He was smoking, his feet propped up on a chair like he owned the place.
Next to him stood a middle-aged woman with makeup caked on so thick it could’ve passed for plaster.
When she saw us, she didn’t bother with pleasantries. Instead, she barked at the boy, “Sit up. They’re here.”
A moment later, Michael strutted in, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
Then she started talking.
“Let’s not waste time,” the woman said, crossing her arms and giving me a once-over. “The bride price is $30,000. Non-negotiable.”
She didn’t wait for a response before continuing.
“Thirty grand is nothing, really. After all, we didn’t raise our daughter for free. And don’t forget the house. A big one, at least a hundred square meters. My daughter won’t live with in-laws.”
She paused, as if waiting for applause, then added, “Of course, the deed should have her name on it. She is carrying your grandson, after all.”
I sipped my tea, watching her like she was some sort of strange exhibit.
The boy with the cigarette let out a snicker, and she shot him a look before adding, “Pay the bride price first, then we’ll talk about setting a wedding date.”