Chapter 3The General's Abandoned Wife

When I walked in with my basket, the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves clinging to me, Grant stood up and took a half-step back. The smell probably offended his refined senses.

He glanced at the basket, overflowing with mushrooms, and a flicker of guilt crossed his face.

“Why are you still doing such hard labor?” he asked. “We… we don’t need the money anymore.”

He said the last part so softly, it was almost a whisper.

In my first life, after he left, he sent money. A check arrived every month, just enough to keep me from starving in this town. Just enough to ensure I could never afford to leave it.

I didn’t bother explaining. “I’m used to it. Better than sitting around.”

I picked up the needle and thread I’d left on the table and started stitching a small sachet. The herbs I used to repel mosquitoes lost their potency after a week, and Ryan’s legs were already covered in angry red welts.

Strangely, the sight didn’t twist my heart the way it used to.

Ryan watched me for a moment, his expression disdainful. “Mom, there aren’t any bugs in the city. You don’t have to make those things for us anymore.”

No. They never had any use for the things I made.

In my first life, just before that military SUV drove away, I’d tearfully stuffed Ryan’s arms with everything I could give him—sachets, a hand-knitted sweater, his favorite carved wooden bird.

They didn’t even make it to the end of the road. The items were tossed out, scattered along the dirt track. Martha, recognizing my stitchwork, had gathered them up and brought them back to me. The look in her eyes was a nauseating mix of pity and amusement.

At the time, I thought it was Grant's mother's doing.

I saved up and bought a cheap cellphone from the county seat, just so I could stay in touch. But every time I called, Ryan was impatient.

“I have to go, my riding lesson is starting.”

“Aunt Lydia is calling me.”

I scrimped and saved again, enduring a long, rattling bus ride to visit his boarding school in secret. He saw me from across the manicured lawn. And he ran. He sprinted to a waiting black car, desperate that I might call out his name and reveal his connection to me.

Watching his retreating back, I finally understood. It wasn’t the scent of the herbs that had faded. It was his heart.

After that, I never tried to see him again. Not until he was a man.

By then, years of hard labor had caught up with me. The doctor said I didn’t have much time. I called Grant. After a long silence, all he said was, “I can arrange for a hospital for you.”

But I didn’t want treatment. I just wanted to see my son one last time.

So I put on my best dress, spent my last savings on getting my hair done, and went to his lavish eighteenth birthday party.

“Ryan,” I’d whispered, my voice trembling. “Don’t you remember me? It’s Mom.”

He had Lydia on his arm, looking at me with pure disgust. “Who are you? Why are you here, trying to ruin my family’s celebration?”

Grant stood nearby, saying nothing.

The cold, calculating cruelty of the wealthy was on full display. In that glittering ballroom, I was a rat scurrying from the sewer. Security guards escorted me out, leaving me on the curb. A speeding truck’s headlights blinded me.

Lying on the pavement, staring up at the indifferent night sky, a single tear traced a path through the grime on my cheek. What a cruel joke my life had been.

And then I blinked. And I was back. Back on the very day his family came to find him.

This time, I would not be that pitiful, pathetic fool.