Reborn to Steal His Empire

For some reason, I thought her voice had a hint of crying. On TV, there are always scenes of parents leaving and kids wailing as if the world is ending, but this wasn't that kind of sound.

Maybe it was just my imagination.

I hailed a cab and headed straight for Redford Avenue.

Redford Avenue is the kind of place only people with money visit—it’s prime real estate, lined with luxury shops. If you look carefully in neighborhoods like that, you can always find stores that buy pre-owned designer bags.

Sure enough, after walking almost every side street off Redford, I found one.

I threw all the bags I’d brought onto the counter—thirteen in total.

The owner liked what I had; two were even limited editions. I told him there were more like this at home and that if he offered a good price, I wouldn't bother shopping elsewhere.

Walking out of the shop, I felt great. Money really does buy a sense of security.

With fat cash in my bag, I went straight to the bank.

I’d turned the house upside down these past few days and only found two bank cards. I wanted to withdraw everything, open a new account, and put the money somewhere safe.

I couldn't say why—I just felt it was safer that way.

By the time everything was settled it was already after two in the afternoon.

I was tired and hungry, so I looked for a place to eat. For the first time in a long while, I felt a little light.

I picked a random restaurant and ordered. While I waited, my mind wandered to how much Claire Bennett's wall-to-wall shoe cabinet might fetch.

Just as my food arrived, my phone rang. It was the house.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Bennett… where are you? Chloe has a high fever."

When I reached the hospital, Chloe was already asleep on the bed. Thankfully the children's hospital was close; Martha said Chloe had always come here before, and the records were on file. The nurses and doctors recognized her.

Martha couldn't say what caused the fever. Anxious, I told her to stay and I went to find the doctor.

By the nurses' station I overheard two young nurses gossiping. "That little girl again—fever."

"Wait, won't her mom use this as an excuse to call Chloe's dad and ask for money?"

"That woman is so cold. She’d stoop to anything for a man’s money—even use her child."

"Well, money makes people reckless. Maybe she even wants her daughter to follow in her footsteps."

"Heh, your mouth is vicious—but you might be right."

Eavesdropping isn't noble, but my instincts told me what they were talking about involved me, so I stood quietly listening.

"The kid’s always in and out of the hospital with fever. This time sounds real—she was 39 degrees earlier. And her mom wasn't here."

"Besides, that woman teaches the girl all those little tricks. Aren't they worried the kid will grow up twisted?"

"Why worry? Maybe she likes the easy cash. She'd be thrilled if her daughter took over."

A man cleared his throat behind me—just two coughs, but it startled me. I turned and saw a doctor. He was taller than me; his clean, sharp jawline was the first thing I noticed.

The two nurses straightened and greeted him: "Dr. Lewis."

Then they spotted me and their voices went dry. "Ms. Bennett—you're here too."

Their faces reddened. They exchanged nervous looks, like they expected a scene.

"I want to see the doctor treating Chloe and find out what's wrong," I said calmly, not intending to bring up what I'd just heard. After a lifetime, I’d seen too much to waste energy defending myself. Besides, I wasn't the original person who'd lived this life.

"This is Dr. Lewis," one of the nurses said quickly.

"Hello, Dr. Lewis. I want to know why Chloe suddenly had a fever." I got straight to the point.

"Please come into the consultation room."

Dr. Lewis glanced at me coolly. "Have a seat."

The room had a desk, a bed, and two file cabinets—nothing special. But a photo on the desk caught my eye. It showed four people: Dr. Lewis, a man, a woman, and a baby in the woman’s arms.

For some reason the couple looked vaguely familiar. I searched my memory and found nothing, then let it go—I'm not the sort who chases every little clue anymore.

"Doctor, she was fine this morning. Why did she get a fever?" I asked.

"Ms. Bennett, did anything happen between you and the child this morning that was… unpleasant?" He paused, searching for a gentler word.

"Unpleasant? No—she had just woken up when I left. Could it be something she ate?"

He studied my face as if looking for an answer, then spoke calmly. "I asked Martha. She said the child didn't eat anything this morning."

I frowned in confusion.

"Martha said after you left, Chloe went back to her room. At first she thought the child had simply fallen asleep. Later when she went to call her for a meal, she found her lying on the bed crying. She cried herself to sleep."

His tone was flat, but his words hit me like a blow.

"She didn't eat lunch either. Martha only discovered the fever in the afternoon. I did the necessary checks and didn't find any abnormalities."

He held my gaze and said, "Children can get heat-related illnesses that lower their immunity, causing sudden high fevers. Ms. Bennett—can you think of anything that might have upset her?"

I didn't answer immediately, but an image flashed through my head: the shadow that had passed the doorway when I called earlier… and the farewell that had sounded like it had tears in it.

"Children are like saplings. They grow the way you tend them," he said.

04

Leaving Dr. Lewis's office, my thoughts were a tangle.

Did I hate Chloe? Not really. If anything, I felt more pity than hatred.

When she’d been alive, Michael Lee and I sometimes talked about her. After she died, she became a raw wound between us; neither of us ever spoke her name again, but her presence lingered in our silence.

I remembered how, back then, classmates and friends had hinted that Chloe wasn't simple. Some even called her a gold-digger who needed a man and affection. But after learning about her home life, I had felt a sliver of pity—maybe her rough edges came from a broken family.

"She grows up how her mother raises her." I used to say, unwilling to put everything on a tidy moral label.

Was fate mocking me? As if to say, "You're so capable—go raise her yourself."

What am I supposed to do?

Back in the ward, Chloe was waking up. Her big eyes blinked in a daze, then rolled toward me.

"Mom!"

She tried to sit up. I hurried over and stopped her. "Don't move. Lie still."

She froze and stared at me like she was afraid I'd vanish.

I fluffed her pillow to make her comfortable. "Do you feel bad anywhere?"

I touched her forehead—warm to the touch.

"I'm hungry…" she said in a soft, childish voice.

"I'll go get you something to eat."

As I stood to leave, she panicked and blurted, "I'm not hungry! Mom, don't go…"

I hesitated, then told Martha a few instructions and handed her some money before heading out.

Once Martha left, it was just Chloe and me. I wanted her to rest until the IV was done, but she refused to sleep. I don't have any tricks for handling kids, so I let it be.

I was restless; every few minutes I checked the drip to see how much was left.

"Mom, where did you go?" Chloe asked in a small voice, as if she'd been gathering courage.

"I went to get us some money," I decided to be honest.

"Get money?" She looked puzzled. "From Dad?"

"No, no." I shook my head. "When I left, I was carrying a lot of bags. I sold them for money."

Her small head bobbed on the pillow, confused. "You don't like them anymore?"

"Well, not exactly." I thought for a moment. "We need money more now."

She nodded, still not fully understanding. Kids are kids.

When she fell silent again, I glanced at the IV and then back at her. She was picking at the skin around her nails. I took one of her tiny hands and held it.

"If Mom needs money, would she sell Chloe?" Her voice trembled and her lashes were wet.

My heart sighed. I soothed her softly, "No. Because Chloe is Mommy's treasure, cough…"

I felt guilty saying it, and a little gross too, but when I looked at the little one’s delighted face, I cleared my throat and said, “I’m selling my bags because I have too many. But Chloe only has one!

And if I sell the bags, Chloe and I will have a good life.

Do you understand what I mean?”

She nodded hard, then reached out that tiny empty hand and hooked her short little index finger at me. I leaned in.

She wrapped that small hand around my head and, in a baby voice, said, “Mommy is Chloe’s treasure too.”

Then—smack—

She planted a kiss on my cheek.

My face went scarlet. After all these years, I’d never heard a confession so blatant; it was embarrassingly sweet.

Luckily Aunt Martha came back then. I told her to feed Chloe a little, and I asked her to get the number of the rental agent she’d found outside.

I explained our needs to the agent and quickly set up a viewing for the next day.

We only had three days, and of course Chloe got sick—sigh. I was exhausted.

Single motherhood is no joke.

Thankfully Chloe wasn’t badly ill. Her fever broke quickly, and after one night in the hospital we were discharged first thing the next morning.

I wanted her to stay home with Aunt Martha so I could move faster on my own, but she refused to leave me. So I took her along to see apartments and left Aunt Martha to finish packing.

The agent was a young man named Zach.

When he saw me with a child, he brought a scooter equipped with a child seat. I blinked in surprise; he laughed and explained they had a “supermom” in their office who brought her kid to work when there was no one to watch them. She installed the child seat.

I put Chloe in the child seat and followed Zach on my bike. I hadn’t ridden one of those in forever and felt stiff all over.

“Mommy, you’re so good at riding,” Chloe said from the seat; her voice was clear and bright, drawing glances from people on the sidewalk.

“Ha…thanks,” I replied awkwardly, still staring at Zach’s scooter afraid of getting separated.

“Mommy, you ride it so well!”

She kept praising me with all the enthusiasm a kid has. I tried to distract her. “Do you like riding this scooter?”

“Yes!” she shouted. “It’s better than a car!”

I couldn’t help but think of those old jokes—better to cry in a BMW than laugh on a bike—and watching Chloe bob her head happily, I laughed. Kids are kids.

That morning we looked at six places. Only one appealed to me: a three-bedroom not far from where we were now, near a preschool and with decent amenities. The price was a little high, though.

Back in the brokerage’s meeting room, I replayed the apartments in my head while talking to Zach about rental details.

Seeing me hesitate, Zach brought up a two-bedroom he recommended. It was nice, too, but I’d likely be looking for work soon and couldn’t take care of Chloe all the time. Aunt Martha couldn’t be fired, and I wasn’t ready to accept being inseparable with Chloe in the way “real” mother-daughters are, emotionally speaking.

So three bedrooms felt more practical.

“Can the price come down at all?” I asked. Last life I’d never worried about housing—who knew I’d be stuck in this situation again.

Sigh. Once I was tied to Chloe, life meant new challenges.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Bennett,” Zach said. “That unit is great—layout, finishings, location, community. The preschool nearby is well-known; lots of affluent families send their kids there. If you move in, your little girl would have a convenient school to go to. It’s really not expensive for what it offers.”

“I get what you’re saying, but it is a bit high. I noticed dust on the coffee table—it hasn’t been lived in for a while, right? Keeping it empty is a loss for you. Lower it a little and I’ll take it.”

Zach hesitated.

“Uncle, I’ll give you a kiss. Will you make it cheaper for Mommy?” Chloe suddenly walked up and asked.

Zach was taken aback, then smiled. “I’ll talk to my manager.”

I hadn’t expected that and froze for a beat. When Zach turned to leave, I blurted, “Wait!”

He looked back, puzzled.

I didn’t have time to explain. “Don’t bother applying—I'll rent it. No discount needed. Draw up the contract.”

As soon as Zach left the meeting room, I brought Chloe closer. She’d already sensed something off and had gone a little pale, staring at me like she’d done something wrong.

To be honest, I was angry. I hadn’t expected a child so small to say something like that. Did she even understand what she was doing?

I forced down my feelings. Ever since Michael Lee died, I hadn’t gotten so worked up in a long time. For years I’d thought getting older would mellow me out. Maybe it was this 27-year-old body’s hormones kicking in.

“Chloe, why did you say that to the man?” I asked.

“I wanted to help Mommy…” Her voice trembled and went thin.

“I know you want to help, but we can’t—” I swallowed, along with the words “use our looks.” I considered them for a moment, then changed course. “We have to use our brains, our skills, and our hard work to get what we want.”

She nodded, half understanding.

“Kisses and hugs are for family and people who love you. You can’t just kiss strangers, understand?” She nodded again.

“And you can’t use those things as a bargain…do you know what a bargain is?” I asked.

She nodded, then shook her head; her little face full of confusion. “When Mommy and Daddy get cards…that’s like that.”

I choked on that and hurried to explain, “That was because Mommy and Daddy were in love…that won’t happen anymore.”

I paused and added, “You mustn’t do that anymore, okay?”

She nodded and, in her baby voice, agreed.

After signing the lease, I asked Zach to contact movers and took Chloe home to finish packing. That afternoon I had an appointment with the consignment shop owner to sell the bags, shoes, and clothes Aunt Martha had sorted. Having money in hand calmed me.

I wasn’t going to leave any of that stuff for Henry Bennett; consider it the support I was giving him for raising his daughter—if he wanted to think that way.

Watching Chloe’s little back, I started planning for the future.

On day three, when Zach and the movers arrived, everyone jumped into action.

Chloe was fascinated and a little lost. She didn’t know what moving meant and had no concept of it. I kept giving instructions to the movers and she followed, echoing my phrases, occasionally giving me a thumbs-up. I didn’t know what that meant either but smiled back.

During a break I decided to have a talk.

“Chloe.” I set her on the couch and chose my words carefully. “After this, you, me, and Aunt Martha are going to live somewhere else. Daddy might not come to see you anymore. Is that okay?”

Her big dark eyes blinked; she looked solemn and said, “It’s okay, Mommy. We can go see Daddy.”

“Yeah. You’re right,” I answered, though it hurt. Honestly, if I could, I never wanted to see that man again. Being “the other woman” was humiliating.

“What if—just hypothetically—we don’t have Daddy in our lives anymore, just you and me. We’ll live together. Would you like that?”

She nodded seriously. “Chloe is happy if she has Mommy.”

Sigh. Kids are weird. I thought she’d be in tears asking for both parents. Guess I don’t really understand kids.

I didn’t know how to tell her we’d been abandoned by Henry Bennett. I debated waiting until she was older to explain when the phone rang.

“Third day already. How are you staying calm this time?” It was Henry.

“Huh?” I answered, confused.

“I’m at the office waiting for you. Bring Chloe this afternoon. Let’s have dinner. I’ll buy you some bags,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of apology that made my skin crawl.

“No need. I’m busy moving,” I snapped.

“Moving? Who allowed you to move?” Henry’s voice went sharp, as if he couldn’t believe it.

I thought, wasn’t he the one who pushed us out? Is he bipolar? I didn’t say that. He ordered instead, “Wait at home. I’ll be there soon.”

When Henry arrived, I was finishing leftover takeout with Chloe. Most of our stuff was already moved; I’d sent Aunt Martha ahead with the movers so we’d be there when Henry showed up.

He came in without closing the door—bam—announcing his presence with a slam.

He glanced around and then fixed his eyes on Chloe and me.

“What do you want?” he asked. He didn’t show much expression, but there was anger in his voice.

I wiped my mouth with a napkin and stood. “We’re moving—weren’t you the one who told us to leave?”

He sized me up and then said in a confusing tone, “Are you seeing someone else?”

I hadn’t expected that and shot back, “What nonsense! The child is right here!”

Chloe, being a child, wasn’t fazed at all; she was concentrating on wrestling noodles with her spoon like it was a serious sport.

“Come with me!” Henry grabbed my hand and walked straight to the bedroom. He closed the door behind us, turning and grabbing my wrist again. I pulled away, twisting my arm. It hurt, and I snapped, “Don’t manhandle people!”

Henry’s step faltered a bit. Seeing my frown, his voice softened, “Did I hurt you?”

Even with all I’d seen in life, that syrupy line made my skin crawl and sent goosebumps down my arms.

I figured I was a sixty-year-old woman—felt perfectly safe. But his concern snapped me back: to everyone else I was just a 27-year-old young woman, and this man before me was her benefactor.

A single man and a single woman alone in a room, the air already this charged—if I didn’t do something, it would be indefensible.

Henry Bennett stepped closer. Behind me was a big bed. Not good. I slid one step over without showing fear, putting on a professional tone. “Say what you need to say.”

His softened expression flickered, then cooled. He repeated the question he’d asked before: “Do you have someone else?”

“No.”

I answered bluntly.

“Then why are you set on leaving? Is this a show for me?”

“I want independence. I want to support myself and Chloe. Is that a problem?”

“Independence?” He chewed on that word, then sneered. “With what? Have you ever worked? Do you know how much someone makes in a month out there? With your talents, you couldn’t even buy one of the bags you carry in a year. Can you handle that?”

He wasn’t wrong—back then that would’ve been Claire Bennett. But that wasn’t me anymore.

No point arguing.

“Anything else? Or are you done? Since you’re here, look—house is intact, keys on the rack by the door. If there’s nothing else, I’m taking Chloe and leaving.”

Before I finished, Henry suddenly closed in. I yelped and darted away, slipping past him to the bedroom door. After decades of living, you learn a woman’s basic survival instinct: if it looks wrong, run.

I grabbed the doorknob, twisted—unlock. I breathed out as I cracked the door, but a hand yanked my shoulder hard. Before I could react, I was pinned to the door.

Bang!

The bedroom door slammed shut behind us.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” Henry’s voice was low, every word squeezed out past clenched teeth. He was angry, but I didn’t know at what—wasn’t it freeing him of a burden?

He hadn’t seemed to care about Chloe’s mother before, either.

“I want freedom,” I said, forcing calm.

“Freedom?” he echoed.

Cornered, I scrambled to invent an explanation in my head. This was not the time to provoke him.

He was so close I felt suffocated. I tried to shrink away from his stare, even a single inch would help.

When I didn’t answer, he grabbed my chin with his other hand and forced my face up. Ugh—this was that move that had been trendy when I was young: the “wall pin.” The door pressed into my back and it was uncomfortable, but that wasn’t the point. The point was—was he about to kiss me?

His face was inches from mine when a crash from outside interrupted him.

“Waaah—Mom—Mom—”

Chloe was crying.

Henry sighed, leaned close to my ear and spat “ungrateful,” then opened the door and walked out.

Chloe kept crying. My heart still pounding, I hurried out as well.

She was sitting on the floor. Her lunch box had tipped over; some broth had splashed onto her calves. Her little hands covered her face as she sobbed.

Henry moved toward her as if to pick her up but stopped when he got close. He glanced up at me with a complicated look, then said, “I’ve arranged for the preschool you wanted. Classes start next week—take her there. My assistant will contact you about the rest.” With that, he walked away without looking back.

I scooped Chloe into my arms, brushed food off her legs. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt? Did anything burn?”

Her crying stopped. The tiny hands that had been clamped over her face parted in two cautious slits. “Mom, did Daddy leave?”

She still wouldn’t let go—maybe some broth splashed into her eyes.

“He left. Are you okay? Eyes okay?”

At my words, her hands snapped open like little doors and two big grape-black eyes blinked up at me. No tears—she’d been pretending.

No wonder Henry looked at me like that—he probably thought I’d taught her to cry on cue. Only then did I realize she’d staged it to pull me out of danger.

She closed her hands again and giggled. “Mom, my eyes are fine. Look—open sesame!”

She opened them wide like she’d practiced, eyes trying to charm me. How could I scold a kid for faking a cry if it saved me? I gave her a helpless smile, and she relaxed into a real grin.

The broth on her wasn’t hot; she’d only gotten dirty. No real injury. I set her on the sink and washed her calves and tiny feet, cheeks warming as I remembered the earlier scene.

“Mom, why is your face all red? Are you sick?”

“No.” I said, “I’m just old—can’t handle that anymore.”

She cocked her head. “Is Mom really old?”

I shot her a look. My age might be older than hers, but I wasn’t ancient.

Settling into the new place went smoothly. Aunt Martha and I worked until we dropped for days, but I didn’t feel tired. After lying on a sickbed for so many years, sweat and weak limbs felt like proof I was alive.

On Monday I gave Martha a two-day break and took Chloe to register at preschool myself.

Henry had arranged the preschool I’d liked when we previewed the rental—the one the agent said was hard to get into. He took care of that mess, saving me a lot of trouble.

When we arrived, many parents and kids were already there. We were early. Parents were greeting each other; some children were being left in the play area to adjust. I nudged Chloe to go meet other kids, and watched her reluctantly let go of my hand and drift into the play space, glancing back at me every so often. For a moment I felt a pang—because she was a child. I told myself that—definitely not because she was Chloe Bennett.

As she walked away I thought of my past life—Michael Lee and I had no children and never fretted over them. Now I felt an unfamiliar tenderness: kids are a sweet burden.

Lost in thought, something bumped my shin. A little boy in a baseball cap had toppled right in front of me. I crouched and helped him up—he was wearing a mask.

I dusted off his knees and asked if he was okay. He said coolly, “I’m fine. Thank you, ma’am.” Then he tilted his head and asked, “Excuse me, where is the teacher?”

Just then a smiling teacher in uniform came out and said, “Hello to all new families. Our classroom is ready—please join us in Room 7 for the opening ceremony.”

The kids in the play area scampered to their parents. Chloe returned to me with a flushed face and a thin sheen of sweat. After I wiped her brow I realized the masked little boy had vanished—probably taken into the classroom by his parent.

We all filed into the room. After the brief hustle, parents dispersed around the edges and I stood near the back. Chloe sat down and I scanned the room. The little boy in the cap was there—calm, still, staring ahead while other kids looked around at their parents. He had a quietly cool demeanor that made me smile.

After the director and teachers gave the welcome and intro, they led the kids through some interactive games. One teacher handed each child a small daisy and explained they would introduce themselves and then give their flower to someone they liked, asking, “Can we be friends?”

It was new and sweet—somewhat nerve-wracking. I worried Chloe might not get a flower and be upset, but my worry was needless. She received two flowers within minutes and proudly waved her three daisies at me.

That meant some other kid might not get one. I thought, “Game flaw,” and sighed.

Then it was the baseball-capped boy’s turn to introduce himself. He stood and quietly said, “Hello, my name is Michael Lee.”

He then crossed between the desks to the back of the classroom and stood right in front of me. He held up his daisy. “Can I be friends with you?”

Three-year-old Michael Lee asked me.

I froze, forgetting to reach for the flower. A teacher prompted, “Give it to the child,” but he seemed not to hear, holding the little daisy up straight.

Yes—this was him. Not a namesake, not a dream. Him.

“No one steal my mommy!” a loud shout snapped me back. Chloe had rushed over and shoved Michael.

The classroom flinched at the sudden fight. The teacher, experienced, stepped in and steadied Michael. I called to Chloe—telling her hitting is wrong. I asked Chloe to apologize. She pouted and quickly teared up. “It’s his fault. He’s trying to take my mommy!”

Michael glanced at Chloe, unmoved, and still held the daisy out to me.

My hand moved without thinking to take it. The teacher cut in: “Look—Chloe is crying. Why don’t you give her the flower and be friends?”

Michael shook his head, insisting he didn’t want it.

The room froze. The teacher looked helplessly at me, hoping I’d say something, but I only stared at the two kids and felt my heart pounding.

“Sorry I’m late.”

A man’s voice came from the doorway, and all eyes turned toward him.

His hair was messy—familiar at a glance.

He scanned the classroom and spoke to himself as he introduced, “I’m Michael Lee’s parent—where is he? Oh, there he is!”

He walked toward the back of the room, looking bewildered under everyone’s stares. When he reached Michael, he asked the teacher, “Did Michael get into trouble?”

The teacher explained what happened. Michael tucked the little daisy back into his chest. Chloe clutched my finger so hard she wouldn’t let go, shooting Michael a glare now and then.

No one knew the earthquake of emotions inside me.

Not to mention, I knew that man—I’d seen Dr. Lewis at the hospital a few days ago.

Michael’s appearance had already stunned me. I never expected Dr. Lewis to be his guardian.

So who was he?

After the teacher finished, Dr. Lewis thought for a moment, then asked Michael, “The teacher says the prize is meant to be given to a friend. Do you understand?”

Michael nodded.

“Then would you consider giving it to this little girl, making up with her and being friends?”

Michael lowered his head silently, then suddenly looked up at me. I forced a smile. He seemed to make a decision, shoved the daisy into my other hand, and walked back to his seat without looking back.

The teacher and Dr. Lewis exchanged glances. The principal was the first to recover and pushed the ceremony along. Luckily, the kids weren’t too distracted; the entrance ceremony concluded smoothly.

Parents departed from the preschool one after another. Chloe kept making me promise I’d pick her up before school ended. Nearby, Dr. Lewis was talking to Michael. I couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

“Why didn’t you call me this morning?” Dr. Lewis asked.

“You were sleeping,” Michael replied.

“So you should’ve called!”

Michael was silent. I sneaked a look at him and found his eyes on mine. I quickly looked away, then reminded Chloe of a few things before we left the preschool.

We hadn’t gone far when someone called from behind, “Ms. Bennett.”

I turned. It was him.

“Hi, Dr. Lewis.”

He walked up, scratched his head, and apologized awkwardly, “Sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s okay.”

I looked him over. His hair was messy and he had noticeable stubble—so different from the neat, serious doctor I’d seen in the hospital. I pointed out, “Your T‑shirt is on backwards.”

He glanced down, then grinned, “I was in a rush. I pulled an all‑nighter yesterday and overslept this morning.”

I paused, then couldn’t hold back a question: “Are you… Michael’s—?”

“Uncle. My name is Daniel Lewis.”

Pain tore through me; my eyes stung. Still, I clung to a shred of hope and asked, hesitating, “Weren’t his parents here?”

He fell silent for a moment and then said the thing I never wanted to hear: “They were in a car accident. They passed away.”

I looked down and couldn’t stop the tears.

“You okay? You… hey… I—paper—” He fumbled in his pockets, flustered, finding nothing.

I knew I must look strange to onlookers, but the grief inside me was unbearable.

The photo on Daniel’s desk flashed through my mind—the couple standing beside him were Michael’s parents, the baby in their arms was Michael.

In my last life, Michael’s parents died when he was very young. He grew up with his uncle, who later, heartbroken, left for abroad the year Michael got into university and never returned—eventually dying far from home.

This uncle I’d never met in my previous life was standing awkwardly in front of me now, unsure what to do.

And Michael—he’d already known the pain of losing his parents. Seeing him again now, his life hadn’t seemed to get any kinder.

Daniel insisted on walking me home. During the walk, he mentioned that he lived close to Michael’s house. He didn’t press about why I’d been crying and kept saying things aloud as if filling silence.

“That kid probably clung to you because of your dress. His mom liked that style,” he said.

I was stunned. In my previous life, Daniel used to buy me skirts—plaid, tulle—and I’d grown to like that style. I’d never thought his interest might be connected to that.

Even after living with someone for years, there are still things you don’t know.

Back home, I collapsed onto the couch. I felt hollowed out, bone weary.

I shut my eyes and memories rolled in like waves.

Michael and I met in college.

He always acted aloof, and combined with his good looks and top grades, he attracted a lot of attention.

Chloe always seemed to hover around him. People assumed they were a couple until a girl who confessed to Michael found out he’d rejected her and discovered Chloe had been his childhood friend.

Rumors of Chloe being manipulative—playing sweet in front of people while scheming behind their backs—started to spread. I’d ignored those stories at first.

But as Michael and I grew closer, I personally experienced Chloe’s two-faced behavior.

Michael stayed true to himself. Even though we had misunderstandings, he ultimately chose me.

Even when Chloe used her life to sabotage our marriage, we leaned on each other and made it through.

Poor Michael—his life seemed like a book of sufferings, fate constantly cruel to him.

His parents were gone when he was only two.

Thinking of him going to preschool alone today, seeking the teacher by himself, sitting quietly at his desk—I realized it wasn’t a kid trying to look cool. He knew that, among the bustling crowd, nobody was truly there for him.

I’d always thought Chloe and Michael had been friends from a young age, but I never guessed they met in preschool.

In college, I’d been jealous of Chloe and regretted not being part of Michael’s childhood, of not meeting him before she did.

Who would have thought I’d get a chance to walk into his childhood—only, cruelly, in this new identity.

And Daniel? That young, vibrant face—I could never have linked him to the heartbroken uncle who died abroad.

Wait.

Daniel never married. What if I introduced him to someone? What if I pushed to set him up—could I change his future?

If his future could change, maybe other things could too.

Now I’m Chloe’s mother. If I raise Chloe differently than her original mother did, will she stop clinging to Michael? Will she stop doing those extreme things?

But they’d already clashed the first day they met—maybe my presence has already broken their old bond.

If so, maybe it’s better they hate each other—

Better that Chloe grow to dislike Michael than love him and be rejected, right?

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, wishing the heavens would be merciful and write two big words up there: Correct!

Nothing changed. The room was eerily quiet.

“Ding ding ding—”

A sharp phone ring snapped me out of my reverie—and startled me.

I answered. An anxious voice asked, “Is this Chloe Bennett’s mother?”

“Yes, this is she.”

“Could you come back to the preschool? Chloe and Michael got into a fight.”

When I returned to the preschool for the second time, Daniel was already waiting in the office. I nodded at him in greeting.

My eyes went straight to Michael. His hat and mask were off; his head and face were fine and his clothes seemed intact—except for a sterile bandage on his knee.

Rage flared instantly, and I swung my gaze to Chloe, only to see her eyes red and watery. Seeing her tearful face cut my anger in half.

“Teacher, excuse me—what happened between the two kids?” I asked, trying to control my temper.

“During recess just now, for some reason at the bathroom sink area, Chloe pushed Michael. Michael fell and scraped his knee, but—” The teacher hesitated, glancing at Chloe. Chloe hurried behind my leg.

“Chloe says Michael splashed water on her, and she turned to dodge and accidentally knocked him down.”

I looked at Michael with fresh worry. “Other than the knee, is he hurt anywhere else? Did he sprain his ankle?”

Michael met my eyes calmly and shook his head.

“Just the knee? A bandage will do? Should we take an X‑ray to make sure he didn’t hurt himself badly?”

I looked to Daniel. He’d been assessing Michael, but my question put him on the spot. He waved his hand quickly, flustered, “No, no. Kids roughhouse all the time—just a little scrape…”

“That’s not okay. Even a scrape is dangerous—risk of tetanus—” I kept glancing at Michael, aching to scoop him into my arms and rush him to the hospital. Chloe’s weak calls of “Mom” behind me went ignored.

“Ahem, Mrs. Bennett—”

The teacher cleared her throat, cutting off my rapid-fire questions. "The issue now is, as the school we must ensure the children's safety. For now we need to resolve the conflict between the two kids to prevent this from happening again. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, yes, you're right, teacher."

"Chloe, apologize to Michael right now!"

I pulled Chloe out from hiding behind me and commanded sharply.

"Mom, it wasn't me!"

Chloe looked utterly wronged; big teardrops were already falling down her cheeks.

"Don't argue!" My voice went sharp. "Michael hurt his knee—if his injury is bad, I—"

"Ahem, Ms. Bennett, Ms. Bennett!"

Ethan Park couldn't stand my scolding and interrupted. "They're just kids with a quarrel. Talk it through and move on—don't scare them…"

His words made me realize Chloe was crying even harder. She clung to my leg with one hand and kept wiping her eyes with the other. "Mom, Mom, it wasn't my fault. He splashed water on me. I didn't mean to… Mom, waah…"

I glanced at Michael with some worry. Michael spoke up then: "Auntie, I'm fine. She didn't do it on purpose."

I froze, then nodded slightly and softened my tone. "Chloe, even though Michael says you didn't mean to, he's still hurt, and it's because of you. You need to apologize to Michael, okay?"

Chloe sniffled and stopped crying. She looked up at me, saw my resolve, and reluctantly nodded.

I bent down and pried her away from my leg. She stubbornly kept hold of one of my hands, then finally looked toward Michael and whispered, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

Little Michael answered calmly.

"Michael's uncle, is there anything else you'd like us to address? Both sets of parents are here—if you have any requests, please say them."

The teacher turned to Ethan Park, who'd been bewildered the whole time.

"No, we don't have any demands. Right, Michael?"

He glanced at Michael.

Michael shook his head.

"Alright, then…" The teacher exhaled in relief. "Both kids, please go back to class. Mr. Park, thank you for coming in—if anything else comes up we'll be in touch."

Ethan nodded, exchanged a few polite words, and followed Michael out of the office.

"Ms. Bennett."

When the office emptied, the teacher finally addressed me. I quickly nodded.

"Here's the thing: the other parent isn't pursuing this, but I still want to talk to you about the incident. Regarding roughhousing—Chloe says she tried to avoid him after he splashed water and accidentally knocked him down, but actually…"

She paused, scanning my face like she was choosing her words. "Please don't be angry."

I nodded.

"Michael didn't get splashed. Chloe pushed him from behind when he wasn't looking. Our custodian saw the whole thing and told us."

"Although Chloe did cry a lot and there might be things we don't know, she did deliberately push Michael."

The teacher said this like she worried I wouldn't believe it or would accuse them of falsely blaming Chloe. What she didn't know was I believed it all too well—this sounded exactly like Chloe!

I almost wanted to grab her hand and narrate all the times Chloe pulled little manipulative stunts, to tell of the heartbreaks I'd suffered because of her manipulations!

But I held back. After all, I was Chloe's mother now, and my priority was to hear what the teacher had to say.

"I understand. I'll give her a stern talking-to when we get home," I promised solemnly.

"I believe you can handle it." The teacher seemed surprised by my indignation, then added, worriedly, "But children are young. Sometimes they don't realize the consequences. And we did see what happened this morning—maybe Chloe sees Michael as a pretend enemy. Your job is mainly to guide her, so she doesn't form those bad thoughts or behaviors. Don't you agree?"

I nodded emphatically.

Before I left, the teacher handed me a flimsy pamphlet about how moms can communicate with their children. On the cover were eight big characters: "Mom and I Are Good Friends."

The thought of being friends with Chloe made me shiver.

We left the school building and headed toward the gate. From a distance I saw Ethan Park standing there.

"Hey, I thought you'd been locked in the teacher's dungeon while they plotted your rescue," I said with a snort. "Why is your T-shirt inside out?"

He scratched his head the same way as before, a little embarrassed. "I crashed on the couch on the way back and forgot to flip it."

"I'm really sorry about this morning. I'll talk to Chloe properly at home."

"No, no, don't worry. Kids fight. It's just a tumble—no need for a big fuss." He smiled. I thanked him.

We stood there awkwardly for a bit until I broke the silence. "I'm going to the store to pick up dinner ingredients. I'll go ahead."

"Oh?" Ethan scratched his head. "Oh—I need to buy groceries too."

Without another word he fell in beside me.

On the way he kept commenting: "Kids these days are treated like porcelain. A tiny scrape and teachers act like it's an emergency." He went on, "When we were kids we were tougher—unless you were bleeding, the teacher wouldn't care!"

Then he asked, "Was your school like that when you were a kid?"

I glanced at him. In truth, that's exactly how cautious my school had been. He had no idea that the three-year-old me was just starting kindergarten in this very place.

When he noticed I wasn't replying, he didn't get annoyed and continued chatting about how exhausting but rewarding childcare can be, completely unaware that my mind had drifted.

I hadn't stopped thinking about it lately: where exactly was I now? What had my young parents been like—what were they doing now? No matter how I tried to recall, I couldn't remember our home address or phone number from when I was three. I only came to this city for college; before that I'd never set foot here. Memories from earlier were suddenly so hazy.

All I could remember clearly were a tall, handsome father and a gentle, generous mother. Where were they now? Could I ever see them again?

In the supermarket Ethan trailed behind, tossing random items into his cart so you couldn't tell what he planned to cook.

"Buying cookies? You're reading the labels like a nutritionist," he teased when he saw me inspecting three different boxes.

"I'm looking for no-peanut options," I replied nonchalantly, then put two boxes back after comparing ingredients.

At the frozen food aisle I grabbed a few packages of dumplings; he casually tossed several instant noodle packs into his cart.

"Done shopping?" he asked as he came over.

"Yes—these."

I pulled a couple bags of shrimp dumplings from the freezer.

"All shrimp ones?"

"Yeah."

At checkout I asked for two bags and divided the items. Ethan filled his own bag, too, then insisted on carrying one of mine. I handed him one without much thought.

When we parted he handed the bag back to me. I smiled. "This is for Michael—part of Chloe's apology."

He peeked in, mumbled, "All his favorites," and then gave me a look of disbelief. "You really know Michael well!"

I paused, then answered softly, "Do I?"

"My husband likes those too."

08 When I picked Chloe up from kindergarten that afternoon, I watched from a distance as she followed the teacher out of the building. She was on tiptoe, craning her neck to look outside; her little brows were knitted like she had a secret, and the moment she saw me her whole face lit up into a huge smile.

I waved, and my eyes automatically scanned over the kids' heads until I spotted Michael at the back of the line. He wore a baseball cap and a mask, head down, quietly trailing behind.

When Chloe broke into a sprint toward me yelling "Mom!" I felt Michael glance our way. But by the time I steadied Chloe and looked up, he had already walked off alone.

I asked the teacher if Michael's parent hadn't come to pick him up. The teacher sighed and said, "He only has one uncle. He called and said he was stuck at the hospital and couldn't leave, so he told the child to go home on his own. I asked Michael to call me as soon as he got home to let me know he's safe."

After saying goodbye to the teacher, I took a small detour with Chloe to make sure Michael went into the apartment building. Only when I saw him go inside did I let myself head home.

I changed Chloe into her home clothes. She obediently washed her hands and face, then came out clutching her hands in triumph—water still dotted across her cheeks.

I dried her off, sat her in her booster seat, and put a bowl of pumpkin puree in front of her for a snack. I sat across from her, listening to her chatter about her first day at kindergarten while thinking of how to bring up the conversation I needed to have.

Alone, the questions kept coming. I had no parenting experience—was I capable? And Chloe wasn't even my biological child—did I have the right to shape her life? But fate had brought us together; for better or worse, I had to face it.

"Mom, I think—it's so much fun at kindergarten!" she said, waving her little arms and shoving a spoonful of pumpkin into her mouth.

"Chloe."

"Yeah?"

"Can you tell me what happened at school today when you argued with the other kids?"

At the mention of it, she—who had been bright-eyed a moment ago—immediately deflated, like a wilted eggplant. Her little head practically drooped into her bowl.

I reached out and patted her cheek and said calmly, "I'm not trying to blame you. I just want you to remember what happened, because the teacher might not know the whole story. If she gets the wrong idea and starts to dislike you, what would we do?"

Her head lifted a little. I caught her big eyes sneaking a glance at me.

"Did the teacher say she saw you push Michael Lee? Is that true?"

At Michael's name, Chloe's lips pressed together. She hesitated, then nodded.

"So you pushed him because he made you unhappy, right?"

She nodded again.

"What did he do to make you upset? Did he splash water on you?"

This time she didn't nod so readily. Instead she pressed her lips even tighter.

"The teacher says she didn't see Michael splash you. Did the teacher make a mistake? Chloe?"

I saw her shoulders tremble quickly, like she hiccupped, and then slowly shake her head. I pressed on, "No? The teacher didn't see it?"

She finally lifted her head a little more. When I looked down, her big eyes were brimming with tears. Something tightened in my chest. She mumbled in a tiny voice, "I'm sorry, Mommy. I lied. Waa—I'm sorry—"

She flung her face up and began to cry, her mouth stuffed with pumpkin puree, her right hand clenching the spoon. She looked ridiculous and pitiful all at once, which made me both want to scold and laugh. I grabbed a tissue to wipe her face while soothing her, "Don't cry, don't cry. It's okay, I understand. Don't cry, be a good girl—"

Maybe because I didn't scold her, she gradually relaxed. Even between hiccups she kept chewing. I was about to tell her to spit it out when, to my surprise, she swallowed and, through her tears, flatteringly praised, "Mommy, your pumpkin puree is so good, sob…"

I held back a laugh. I'd never realized Chloe was such a foodie, but I didn't forget why I was there. "Can you tell me why you pushed Michael?"

Every sniff made her little head bob uncontrollably. She answered in fits and starts, "I don't like him taking you away from me—"

After she said it, she seemed to feel terribly wronged and burst into louder sobs, complete with hiccups.

I jumped up and went to her, patting her back and comforting her until she calmed down. Only after I promised I wouldn't be angry did she finally settle.

That night after her bath, I told her the story of Pinocchio. When I told her that Pinocchio's nose grows when he lies, she reflexively covered her nose.

It struck me as funny, but I kept telling the story to the end because it seemed to have an effect.

When I finished, Chloe popped out of bed and looked at me seriously. "Mommy, if you lie you'll turn into a wooden puppet?"

I intended to nod, but then I remembered the last life—how, the day she died, I almost said something different. What came out instead was, "If it's a white lie… it won't happen."

"What is a white lie?"

"A white lie is… a lie that doesn't hurt anyone. Do you understand?"

Her big eyes blinked; she nodded vaguely. I knew she didn't really understand, but the point for today was achieved, so I added, "But it's okay to lie to bad people."

Her little brow furrowed more deeply, confusion written all over her. I was about to tell her she'd understand when she was older when she suddenly hugged my neck, surprising me. "I will never lie to Mommy again."

Her little arms had surprising strength—she squeezed me tight, and I felt oddly flushed, like I couldn't breathe.

"Will you always love me, Mommy?"

My body froze.

After a long moment, I nodded.

—After the first day's scuffle at kindergarten, Chloe and I made three rules: no lying, don't be friends with Michael, and don't pick fights with Michael. I wasn't asking much—just that she not cause trouble for him.

She was delighted that I hadn't scolded her for the incident and agreed at once.

Life at kindergarten settled into a routine. Habit is a powerful thing; I found myself almost used to the daily bustle of taking care of a small child.

Every morning we ate together, I took her to school, picked her up, did crafts with her. Even Martha joked that I had "suddenly learned how to be a mother."

I asked her if I had been bad to children before. She smiled and said not exactly bad—just not affectionate. The kids were a little afraid of me. But now Chloe woke up every day searching for Mommy.

"Before? Were you not like this?" I asked.

Martha, snipping ends off green beans into a bowl, sighed, "When you lived at Mr. Bennett's place, you were drunk five out of seven days and missing the other two. How were you supposed to care for her?"

I lowered my eyes and kept picking beans quietly.

Martha went on, "Chloe ate alone, watched TV alone, played by herself. Every time I saw her talking to her doll, my heart…"

She sniffed and even choked up. "But we're moved now. You're different. This is good—for the child and for you."

Martha was in her fifties, widowed. She'd taken the nanny job to have something to do and to avoid living with her son and daughter-in-law. She was hardworking, quick, and I liked her. When I had time, we'd sit and prep vegetables or go shopping together. She teased me like an older sister, and we were comfortable enough to joke about age.

"You're still young," she'd say. "You need to find a way to earn a living. Kids grow up, they cost money. Always asking others for help isn't steady."

I knew she was referring to Henry. I nodded in agreement, which made her smile.

I had thought about it too. Even though being transplanted decades into this life gave me advantages—some investments and housing moves were easier—I wanted a real business. But I'd been out of the workforce a long time and didn't know where to start. I had sold some bags and shoes and closed a bank account, which added up, but living off savings forever would be risky.

Lost in thought, my phone buzzed. Time to pick up Chloe.

When I reached the kindergarten, children were streaming out. There were four small classes; Chloe was in Class Two. As they came out, she saw me from a distance and hopped up and down, shouting to her teacher, "My mommy's here! My mommy's here!" The teacher exchanged a look with me, then let her go.

I dawdled straightening Chloe's coat and backpack while listening to her complain she was hungry and sneaking glances around for Michael.

Michael came out with the line, trailing at the end. He walked a few steps and was called by a woman—young and pretty in a cream floral dress, long hair falling smoothly by her ears. They spoke for a moment; with the noise at the school gate, I couldn't make out their words.

When I hesitated about whether to approach, the woman smiled and offered her hand. Michael shook his head. I let out a small breath, relieved—then he followed the woman away.

No teacher seemed to notice. I had a bad feeling.

Just as I grabbed Chloe's hand to follow, a figure stepped in front of me and blocked the way.

"Ms. Bennett."

I looked at the woman in front of me, puzzled—unsure who she was.

"My son goes to this kindergarten too," she said, pausing. "Henry didn't tell you?"

Her smile was half-sneer, and she spoke with an air of superiority, looking Chloe up and down.