Their Cruelest Regret
But when the court played my memories for all to see, it was they who faced the condemnation of the world, they who had everything stripped away.
“Honey… Mom… I was wrong,” they cried, their voices tangled together in a pathetic plea. “I swear, I never knew the truth was like that. Please, just give me one more chance.”
I simply stepped around their outstretched hands. “I don’t know you.”
The men suing me were named Ethan and Dylan Monroe. The list of charges was long.
As a wife, they claimed, I was a lazy freeloader who treated her own child with contempt. I showed no concern for my husband, a man who gave me his complete trust and love, while I spent my days eating, drinking, and flirting with a string of other men.
As a mother, they said I was cruel. I would beat our son, Dylan, and would sooner give money to a boy with no blood relation than help my own flesh and blood when he was ready to get married. They accused me of poisoning his relationship with his fiancée, turning our home into a constant war zone.
They wanted me in court. They wanted compensation for years of emotional distress.
Five hundred thousand dollars.
1
I sat on the defendant’s stand, my face a placid mask.
It was easy to feel nothing. I didn’t recognize them at all.
It had all started the day before, just two days after I’d walked out of The Phoenix Clinic, my memory wiped clean. They cornered me on the street.
They introduced themselves as my husband and son. The story they spun was that I’d tried to assert my dominance over my new daughter-in-law by deliberately cooking a meal she wouldn’t like. When she, understandably, got upset, I used it as an excuse to storm out and run away from home, a calculated move to pressure her into an apology.
The crowd that gathered instantly took their side.
“Ugh, one of those monster-in-laws, trying to pull a power play,” someone muttered. “Got put in her place and now she’s throwing a tantrum. It’s 2042, for God’s sake. Grow up.”
“Seriously,” another voice added. “Why should the poor girl have to apologize to her? Old bats like that should just disappear.”
It wasn't until the police arrived that they learned the truth: I’d undergone a memory erasure procedure. Of course I didn’t know them.
Their shock was palpable. They called me irresponsible, a coward. And they were going to sue. Which brought us here.
Now, at the plaintiff’s table, Ethan Monroe’s face was slick with tears.
“I worked myself to the bone for you,” he choked out, his voice echoing through the courtroom. “All those client dinners, the endless schmoozing, drinking until I was sick… and every penny I earned, I gave to you. I did everything you ever asked. What more could you possibly want? You’ve made my entire life feel like a joke!”
Beside him, Dylan was also sobbing, gasping for breath. “Mom, we’re mother and son. We share the same blood. Why would you love a stranger more than me? You always did, and you still do. Why couldn't you ever just see me?”
I remained silent. To me, everyone in this room was a stranger. I knew the answer to his question even less than he did.
A commotion erupted at the back of the courtroom. An elderly couple, their hair white as bone, burst through the doors. The moment the old man saw me, he raised his cane, his face contorted with rage. “You heartless woman! We moved back to the countryside to give you space! You promised us you’d finally try to make a life with him. Why do you have to keep tormenting us?”
The old woman chimed in, her voice a shrill wail. “When you first married into our family, you couldn’t even boil water! I taught you everything, step by step! You told us you never had a new dress growing up, so I sewed you a whole closet full! What more do you want from us?”
They wept, a torrent of snot and tears, painting a picture of me as some unforgivable monster. They even made a show of trying to kneel, a gesture so pathetic and overwrought that the gallery began to murmur in sympathy. Voices rose, condemning me, wishing me dead.
At Ethan and Dylan’s request, the trial was being broadcast nationally, with a live public sentiment index tracking the viewers’ opinions.
Right now, the holographic displays were a solid wall of vitriol directed at me.
Still, I felt nothing. It was all too foreign, like watching a movie about someone else’s life.
Finally, the judge’s gavel struck, the sound cracking through the noise, silencing the room.
“Court is in session.”
And the memories the clinic had taken from me began to play.
The first image flickered to life on the screens. I was holding a tiny Dylan, rocking him gently. The front door slammed open and Ethan stumbled in, reeking of stale whiskey and cigarettes. His briefcase, coat, and shoes scattered across the floor. The noise startled the sleeping baby in my arms, and he began to scream.
Ethan clapped his hands over his ears, his face a mask of irritation. Dylan’s cries only grew louder, more frantic. Nothing I did could soothe him.
Ethan’s frustration boiled over. He staggered toward the bed and snatched a pillow.
“Cry, cry, cry, that’s all you ever do! God, it’s driving me insane!” he roared, shoving the pillow down onto our son’s tiny face. “I’ll make you stop!”
Panic seized me. I scrambled to pull him away, but his drunken rage simply shifted its target. He spun around and a fist connected with my temple. My head exploded in a flash of white, and before I could even get to my feet, he had the pillow again, pressing it down, this time over my face.
Darkness. The sound of my own heart, a frantic, deafening drum against my ribs. The cold certainty of death washed over me.
But Ethan, weak from the alcohol, lost his grip. He let go.
Tears streaming down my face, I ignored the throbbing in my head and scooped up my still-wailing son, fleeing to another room.
I locked the door behind us, my back sliding down the cold wood until I hit the floor. That’s when I realized my face was soaked, my tears dripping onto Dylan’s small cheeks, one after another, an endless stream I couldn’t wipe away fast enough.
I pressed my face to his, whispering into the soft down of his hair. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. Mommy’s here. I’ll protect you. Even if I have to die, I will always protect you.”
On that freezing night, in a room with no heat, I sat barefoot on the floor, holding my son, warming him with my own body until my lips turned blue.
The scene shifted. It was the next morning. I’d just finished feeding Dylan. Ethan, nursing a hangover, emerged from the bedroom. After he’d eaten, I approached him, my voice barely a whisper. “Honey, the money you gave me last month is gone. Could… could you transfer me this month’s household expenses?”
It was less a question and more a plea.
He slammed his fork onto the table. “I gave you fifteen hundred dollars, not fifteen. How the hell did you burn through it so fast?”
He snatched my phone from my hand. “Let me see what you’ve been buying. Clothes? Makeup? If I find anything like that, I swear to God I’ll kill you! Who are you trying to impress, huh?”
As he raged, my purchase history filled the screens. Baby formula. Groceries for the house. A new pair of slippers for him. Toilet paper, shampoo, soap. There were things for Dylan, things for Ethan, even things for his parents.
There was nothing for me.
Ethan’s finger jabbed at one line item. “Ten dollars for toilet paper? What, is your ass made of gold? We used to use newspaper, old rags! What do you need this fancy crap for?”
He scrolled further. “And this! Babies can grow up perfectly fine on rice cereal. Everyone else’s kid does. Why are you wasting money on formula? Why do you always have to be so extravagant?”
His voice rose to a shout. “I’m telling you now, you’re not getting another dime from me! You can see how you like it with no money to waste!”
I had no words. I could only watch as he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
The formula canister was almost empty.
First, search for and download the MotoNovel app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "255616" to read the entire book.
MotoNovel
Novellia
Bookworm« Previous Post
The Price He Pays for My Seven Deaths