Back to the Day She Was in Difficult Labor
I agreed.
To support the child, I took a shady job, got arrested, and was expelled from university. I wrecked my body with manual labor, all to raise the boy.
Years later, when he’d become a successful doctor, Sarah reappeared—alive—with my brother. “You were just raising our son,” they said, tossing me cash. My own parents admitted they’d always known. Even the son I’d sacrificed for looked at me with disgust.
That night, I drank myself into the path of a car.
When I opened my eyes, I was back at the hospital—the day Sarah went into labor.
1.
“The patient has an amniotic fluid embolism. We’re losing her,” a nurse said, rushing out with a newborn in her arms. “We did everything we could.”
She thrust the wailing infant into my arms. I stood there, frozen.
“She seems to have something to say to you. Dad, you should go in now.”
The word “Dad” sent a chill down my spine.
In my past life, Sarah had found me in her third trimester, spinning a story about being used and abandoned. For the next few months, I was the one who paid for everything, who took her to every check-up, who got her admitted to the hospital.
I thought my duty would end once the baby was born. I never imagined she would bribe the doctors and nurses to fake her own death, trapping me with guilt and moral obligation, turning me into the ultimate fall guy.
I was a college student, barely scraping by, trying to study and raise a child at the same time. To make extra money, I fell for a trap set by my roommate and started working for a shady telemarketing company. Less than two weeks in, before I saw a single paycheck, the police raided the office for fraud. I was arrested and expelled.
Without a degree, I couldn’t find a decent, well-paying job. But the baby was growing, and so were the expenses. I worked myself to the bone, taking any odd job I could find, from dawn till dusk. My back ached constantly. I skipped meals during the day and lost sleep at night, but I was young, and my body held up… for a while.
When it was time for kindergarten, my parents, who had never shown any interest before, suddenly insisted I send him to an expensive private school.
“Kids these days are different,” my father had said sternly. “The competition starts in preschool. If he falls behind at the starting line, his whole life will be a struggle.”
At the time, I was so focused on doing what was best for the boy that I never questioned their sudden concern. I just listened as they suggested I sell one of my kidneys.
“You have two, after all. You won’t die without one,” they’d urged. “But if this child misses this opportunity, it will affect him for the rest of his life.”
I let them talk me into it. I sold a kidney, and my health immediately began to decline. Soon, I was living on painkillers.
Somehow, I managed to get him through childhood, through his master’s and doctoral degrees, until he landed a coveted position as an attending physician at a top-tier hospital.
And that’s when Sarah, my dead ex-girlfriend, reappeared, holding my brother Jackson’s hand. They thanked me for my sacrifice, and Sarah tried to dismiss decades of my life with a check for thirty grand.
I refused it. “Alex is my son. I don’t need a thank-you fee.”
Jackson just laughed at me. “I’m his biological father. My blood runs in his veins. You can’t change that.”
My parents sided with him, patting my shoulder. “Evan, he really is your brother’s son. You should let them be a family.”
The moment my parents admitted it, I felt the blood reverse in my veins. No wonder they had been so invested in his upbringing. But as his grandparents, they never contributed a dime. They just squeezed every last drop of life out of me for their precious grandson, waiting to swoop in and reap the rewards.
I told them all to get lost.
But then Alex appeared, standing protectively in front of his real parents. He pointed a finger at me, and his words were daggers.
“You’re not my dad. Don’t think your kidney failure is my problem. I’m not paying for your treatment!”
My heart shattered. Years of back-breaking labor and a missing kidney had finally caught up with me. My body was failing, and it was all for him.
That night, I got drunk on a street corner, stumbled into traffic, and died in a pool of my own blood, my eyes wide open with regret…
Thinking of this, I looked down at the infant in my arms, and my blood ran cold.
“Dad?” the nurse prompted again, urging me toward the delivery room.
I shoved the baby back into her arms.
“What are you talking about? This isn't my child.”
In my past life, I was so consumed with grief for Sarah that I never noticed that from the moment he was born, my name was listed as the father on his birth certificate. It made it easy for everyone to believe he was mine after her “death.”
“Sir, what kind of joke is that?” The nurse looked flustered and tried to push me toward the room. “The mother is fading fast. You need to see her.”
I let out a cold laugh and went in anyway.
Sure enough, there was Sarah, her face artfully pale, looking like she was on death’s door. A theatrical masterpiece.
“Evan, I’m dying. The baby… can you…”
“No,” I cut her off, my voice hard as steel.
“But your name is on the birth certificate as his father. Please, just raise him for me. He’ll take care of you when you’re old, he’ll be a good son.”
A good son? The man he became wouldn’t just refuse to care for me; he would actively wish for my death.
Seeing I wouldn’t budge, Sarah went for the grand finale, her eyes rolling back as she pretended to lose consciousness. Instantly, the doctor and nurse she’d paid off rushed in, pushed me out of the room, and began their “emergency resuscitation.”
A few minutes later, the doctor came out and informed me that Sarah had died. He told me to take the baby and handle the paperwork.
I just shook my head and turned to leave.
The nurse blocked my path, her voice loud and accusatory. “Sir, are you abandoning your child?”
Her shout drew a crowd. People started whispering, and a few even pulled out their phones to record me, muttering that they should call the police.
I took the baby from her, my voice calm. “I’m not married. How could I have a child?”
“But the mother said you were the biological father!” the nurse insisted.
An old man in the crowd couldn’t contain himself. “You bastard! You knock up a girl and then won’t even take responsibility for your own kid? You’re going to hell for this!”
The nurse fanned the flames. “His name is right there on the birth certificate, in the father’s section. I just don’t understand why you won’t acknowledge him.”
The chorus of condemnation grew louder.
“Your hospital has a strange sense of humor,” I said, forcing myself to remain calm. “For a child born out of wedlock, don’t you think a DNA test would be the first step?”
I looked directly at the nurse. “Or does this hospital operate on a ‘write-a-name, make-a-dad’ policy? If I put your name down as the mother, does that make him your son?”
She was speechless. The crowd, however, loved the idea, and started clamoring for a DNA test to prove what a scumbag I was. The young nurse stood there, completely lost.
Just then, the doctor reappeared. “DNA testing is handled by the lab. If you insist, follow me.”
Something about his calm demeanor felt wrong.
After they drew my blood in the lab, I noticed most of the crowd had dispersed, though a few busybodies were still hanging around, eager for the finale.
“I’ve put a rush on it for you. The results should be back this afternoon.”
I nodded. A few hours of waiting was a small price to pay to be free of this nightmare forever.
But when the results came in that afternoon, I was the one who was stunned.
The report showed a 99.99% probability of paternity.
“The results are in. You are the father,” the doctor stated flatly.
My mind was a chaotic mess. Then, a memory from my past life surfaced. Right before she “died,” Sarah had given me a small lock of hair, claiming it belonged to the baby’s real father, so I could register his birth. Lost in grief and pity, I had accepted it without a second thought. I never stopped to wonder how she could have predicted her own death with enough clarity to prepare a lock of hair.
A cold smirk touched my lips. If Sarah could bribe a nurse, she could certainly bribe a lab technician. Swapping out my blood sample for a pre-prepared one from the real father would be child’s play.
“If you still have doubts, we can run the test again,” the doctor offered. “But the fee…”
I waved him off. It wouldn’t matter how many times they ran it.
Just then, my phone rang. It was my parents.
“Your brother told us you have a child now?” my mother’s voice was sharp.
I remembered how, in my past life, I had been the one to call them. They had immediately screamed at me for being irresponsible, for having a child out of wedlock, saying I wasn’t half the man my brother was. Then they’d demanded I bring the baby home and take on my responsibilities. Looking back, their hypocrisy was breathtaking.
I stayed silent. My father took the phone and started yelling. “You disgrace! Bring that child home right now!”
The irony was thick enough to choke on. “He’s not my son. It’s none of my business.” I said flatly. “The biological father is probably dead or gone. Sarah never mentioned him. I’ll just leave him at the hospital. They can send him to an orphanage.”
My father was so furious he was sputtering. My mother got back on the line, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “Evan, when you make a mistake, you have to take responsibility. We know you were just foolish for a moment. We’re willing to accept this child.”
Of course you are, I thought. He’s your precious Jackson’s son.
“There’s just one problem,” I said. “I’m broke. After you cut off my allowance, I had to borrow money for Sarah’s hospital bills. If the baby comes with me, he’s going to starve.”
I could hear my father coughing with rage in the background.
My mother immediately changed her tune. “I’ll send you some money right now. Go buy the baby some formula. That poor thing, losing his mother at birth, he’ll never even have breast milk…”
She hung up. A moment later, a notification popped up on my phone. A transfer of fifty dollars.
Just enough for a single can of formula.
I laughed out loud. I had truly underestimated my mother’s shamelessness. She wouldn’t spare an extra dime for me my entire life, but she expected me to pour my soul out for my brother’s child. I often wondered, even if they favored my brother, how could their hearts be so biased?
As I was pondering this, the doctor called. He said the baby’s condition had worsened, and he’d been moved to the NICU.
“He has pneumonia. He likely inhaled too much amniotic fluid during birth, causing a lung infection.”
I listened, my mind elsewhere. In my past life, the baby was perfectly healthy. I registered him at the local precinct just days after he was born. Why was he sick this time around? I looked through the glass at the tiny infant. The man he became had cruelly severed all ties with me. Logic told me to walk away. But right now… he was just a helpless baby.
“The treatment will cost around twenty thousand dollars,” the doctor said. “You can pay at the billing office. We’ll do everything we can.”
Twenty thousand dollars.
A painful memory struck my heart. At this exact time, I had just received a major national scholarship for academic excellence. The prize money was exactly twenty thousand dollars. In my past life, shortly after I told my parents about it, my mother claimed she needed surgery for a stomach issue and took the money.
A dark suspicion formed in my mind. I called my mother.
“Mom, you had a check-up recently, right? Is everything okay?”
She paused for a second, then laughed. “I’m perfectly healthy, honey. Don’t you worry about me. You just take care of that child.”
After hanging up, I realized I had been a pawn in their games in both lifetimes.
But if I fell for the same trick again, I would deserve whatever I got.
…
Days passed, and I didn’t tell my family about the baby’s condition. Finally, Jackson couldn’t wait any longer and called me, asking when I was bringing the baby home.
“Jackson, the baby is very sick. He might not be coming home for a while.”
“But pneumonia…” Jackson blurted out, then quickly corrected himself. “What kind of illness takes so long to treat? Even if it was pneumonia, it should be better by now!”
I pretended not to notice his slip-up. “I wish it were just pneumonia,” I said, my voice heavy with fake sorrow. “The doctor says he has a congenital heart defect. He needs surgery.”
“What? A heart defect? That’s impossible!” my brother shouted. “Are you sure the doctor isn’t mistaken?”
My voice cracked as I insisted, “Would I lie to you about something like this? If you don’t believe me, ask the doctor yourself.”
He hung up immediately. I knew he was calling the hospital. He had tried to trick me into giving up my scholarship money for a fake case of pneumonia. He had no idea that the cost of heart surgery was far more than twenty thousand dollars.
A short while later, my brother and my parents stormed into the hospital, their faces etched with worry.
“Doctor, how much will the heart surgery cost?” my mother asked, her voice trembling.
“Around three hundred thousand,” the doctor said, glancing at me. “And that’s just for the surgery. It doesn’t include the cost of recovery and aftercare.”
My parents collapsed to the floor. Even my brother stood frozen, utterly lost.
“We don’t have that kind of money,” I said, helping them up. “Maybe… maybe we should just give up on the treatment…”
My father slapped me across the face, calling me a monster.
“We have to save him,” my mother sobbed. “We’ll find a way to get the money.”
She pulled my father and brother aside, and they began to discuss selling their house.
I smiled coldly to myself. Who but his biological father and grandparents would go to such lengths?
“Evan,” my mother said, turning to me. “You mentioned you got a scholarship. It’s not much, but every little bit helps.”
“The money doesn’t get deposited until next month,” I lied. “I’m worried the baby can’t wait that long.”
My father cursed me again for being useless, then started calling a real estate agent.
Less than a week later, they had the three hundred thousand. They had to sell the house in a rush, at a huge loss. They transferred all the money to my account. Since I was the baby’s legal father, it made sense for me to handle the payments.
Seeing that much money in my account gave me a strange feeling. The baby didn’t have a heart defect. The doctor had lied to them. This corrupt hospital was willing to invent a case of pneumonia to scam me out of my scholarship; for a much larger sum, they were more than happy to switch sides and help me scam my family.
In my past life, when I was dying of kidney failure, they wouldn’t even give me a carton of milk. But the moment this child was in trouble, they sold their house without a second thought.
Was I not their biological son?
“The house is gone. Once the baby is better, you’ll take him with you to school and raise him,” my father ordered. “In fact, once you get that scholarship money, you should just drop out and get a job to support him.”
“Dropping out is not an option,” I said calmly. “The university has already offered me a full scholarship to study abroad. I’ll be leaving soon.”
I saw my brother’s eyes narrow, staring at me with pure hatred.
“Study abroad? With what money?” my mother demanded.
“The university is covering all my expenses. You don’t need to worry about it.”
“What about the child? You have to take responsibility!” my father yelled, raising his cane to strike me. “Are you even human?”
How ridiculous. I was inhuman for refusing to raise my brother’s child?
“If you dare to leave, I’ll kill myself!” my father threatened, actually moving toward a wall as if to ram his head into it. “Let’s see if the university still wants you when you’ve been branded for driving your own father to his grave!”
I shook my head, my fists clenched. “I’ll take the child with me,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’ll raise him abroad. He’ll get a good education there.”
Hearing this, my parents’ expressions softened. The chance for the boy to get an international education was a golden opportunity. Jackson looked conflicted.
“If you don’t agree,” I added, “I can leave him with you. Or I can drop him off at an orphanage.”
“No! You have to take him with you!” Jackson decided firmly.
My mother looked like she wanted to object, but a sharp glance from Jackson silenced her.
A month later, I officially registered the baby. Just like in my past life, I named him Alex. This time, as I held him in my arms, my heart was a storm of conflicting emotions.
…
Once I was abroad, free from the interference of my parents and brother, life was still hard. But with the three hundred thousand dollars and my own relentless hard work, I managed to build a successful career. Over the years, my family tried to call me countless times, but I never answered. I was determined to sever all ties.
But it seemed fate was intent on binding me to them.
More than a decade later, I returned to the country. I had two reasons: to handle the paperwork for my child’s enrollment at Stanford and to conduct a personnel review at our company’s domestic branch as a representative from headquarters.
I had just stepped out of my Rolls-Royce when I ran into Jackson, who was working as a sales manager there, right at the entrance to the lobby.
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