A Hopeful Beginning

The first time my mother looked at me, her eyes were filled with sorrow.
She wouldn't hold me, wouldn't feed me. She just let me wail until my throat was raw.
I was born with all my memories, so I knew that in my last life, she had loved me more than life itself.
But when I was three, I died in a fall from our balcony. The tragedy shattered her mind, and she lived out the rest of her days in a fog of pain.
Reborn, my mother had chosen a different path. A quick, sharp pain now was better than a long, drawn-out agony later.
She was going to let “fate” take me, just as it had before, before I could become the flesh and blood she couldn't bear to lose again.
But she didn't know the truth. My fall wasn’t an accident. I was pushed by our nanny.
And in this life, that same nanny was about to walk through our door.

1
I was born in the dead of winter. The delivery room was heated, but I was cold. A chill that seeped into my very bones.
It came from my mother, Rachel. The look she gave me was a mask of grief and despair.
A nurse cleaned me, swaddled me up like a tiny burrito, and presented me to her, beaming. "Congratulations, she's a beautiful little princess! Here, hold your daughter."
My mother flinched as if she’d been burned, snatching her hand back and turning her head away.
"I don't have the strength," she whispered, her voice weary and hoarse.
The nurse's smile faltered for a second before she quickly recovered. "Of course, you must be exhausted after everything."
She turned her attention to the man waiting anxiously at the door—my father, Jacob.
He rushed in, a goofy grin plastered on his face. He took me from the nurse's arms with a clumsy reverence, as if he were holding the most precious thing in the world.
"Rachel, you did it! You were amazing," he breathed. "Look at her, she's the spitting image of you! Especially her eyes."
He held me up for my mother to see, his face glowing with pure joy, waiting for her to share it.
But Rachel only gave me a fleeting glance before shutting her eyes. A single tear escaped and traced a path down her temple, so fast you could have missed it.
The smile vanished from my father’s face, replaced by a look of helpless confusion. He looked from me to my mother, his voice dropping to a concerned whisper. "Rachel, what is it? Are you in pain?"
"Just tired. I need to sleep," she replied, her voice utterly flat.
Dad didn’t press her, but I felt his arms tighten around me.
Cradled in his embrace, I looked at the woman on the bed. I knew she wasn't just tired.
Her heart was already dead.
In my last life, her love for me was a force of nature. She’d given up a flourishing career to be a full-time mom, to be there for every moment. She told the best bedtime stories, made my baby food into tiny works of art, and would celebrate my smallest milestones as if I’d conquered the world. Her love was an all-consuming fire, a promise to give me everything.
Then came that sunny afternoon when I was three. I fell from our apartment balcony and died on impact.
That day marked the beginning of my mother’s tragedy. She stopped eating, stopped sleeping. She’d spend entire nights clutching my old clothes, her sobs echoing in the silent apartment. Her world had crumbled into dust.
My father and grandmother took her to countless doctors, tried endless medications, but nothing could piece her back together. She withered away, consumed by a grief that finally stole her life.
And now, she had returned to the day of my birth, dragging all those memories with her.
She was terrified.
She was terrified of feeling that soul-crushing grief again, of pouring all her love into me only to watch me walk toward my "destined" end.
But Mom, you don't understand.
My death wasn't an accident.
I was pushed. Pushed by the nanny who had seemed so simple and trustworthy.

2
"Waaaaah!"
I let out my first cry, pouring every ounce of my strength into it. It was a long, loud wail, thick with desperation and a sense of betrayal.
Dad immediately went into a panic, patting my back awkwardly. "Rachel, she must be hungry. Is it time to feed her?"
My mother’s body tensed, but she still didn’t turn around.
"I don't have any milk," she said.
"How can that be? The doctor said…" Dad started, but he was cut off by an older, eager voice.
"Jacob, let me hold my sweet granddaughter!"
Grandma was here.
She wore a dark blue quilted jacket, her hair neatly pinned up, her face radiating pure joy. She took me from my father’s arms, cooing "my precious girl," and "little darling."
Grandma’s embrace was warm and soft, smelling of sunshine and soap. It was a small comfort, and my tiny, tense body relaxed a little.
"Oh, listen to you cry! My poor baby must be starving," she said, her voice full of sympathy. She looked at my mother. "Rachel, dear, you should feed her. That first milk is liquid gold."
My mother slowly turned over. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow as she looked at me, as if I were a complete stranger.
"Mom, I told you, I don't have any."
"Nonsense! What mother doesn't have milk?" Grandma’s brow furrowed, her tone sharpening. "Or is it that you don't want to? Let me tell you, Rachel, this child is your own flesh and blood. You can't just—"
"Mom!" Dad cut in, placing a gentle hand on Grandma's shoulder. "Rachel just gave birth. She's exhausted. Let's not pressure her. I'll go mix up some formula."
He hurried out with a bottle and a can of formula.
The room fell silent, the only sound my soft, hiccuping sobs.
Grandma sighed, her voice softening as she looked at my mother. "Rachel, I know this is hard. But the baby is innocent. Look at her, she's so tiny, so helpless."
My mother’s lips parted as if to speak, but she said nothing. She just turned her head back toward the wall.
I knew she had milk. She just refused to create that bond with me. Nursing is the most intimate connection between a mother and child. Once it’s forged, it’s nearly impossible to break.
She was afraid of a love she couldn't sever.
Soon, Dad returned with a warm bottle. The formula trickled down my throat, and I slowly stopped crying, my hunger overriding everything else. Full and exhausted, I drifted into a hazy sleep.
For the rest of our time in the hospital, my mother barely touched me. Feeding, changing, and soothing me were all handled by Dad and Grandma. She would only watch me from a distance, her eyes shadowed with that same sad detachment. Sometimes I'd wake to find her sitting by my bassinet, staring at me with a turbulent, unreadable expression. But the moment our eyes met, or if I made the slightest sound, she would recoil like a startled animal, looking away as if the sight of me physically pained her.
Things didn't get any better when we went home.
We lived in a modest two-bedroom apartment. To make sure my mother could rest, Dad set up my crib in Grandma’s room. At night, my cries were always answered by Grandma, never my mother. The door to the master bedroom remained firmly shut.
I knew that behind that door, my mother was lying awake, just like me.
Her attempt to find peace was just another form of self-torture.
A few days later, Grandma’s old back injury flared up, a slipped disc from the strain of caring for me. She was in so much pain she couldn't get out of bed. As if on cue, Dad was called away on an urgent, week-long business trip.
Suddenly, our home was in crisis.
Before he left, Dad looked at Mom, his face etched with worry. "Rachel, it's all on you for a few days. The baby…"
"Hire a nanny," she said, cutting him off before he could finish. Her voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of urgency I couldn't miss.

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