Chapter 1: Burning Regret, Shattered Love

“Daddy, it hurts.”

My daughter was curled up in my arms, small as a kitten. She felt so fragile against me—her forehead burning against my neck, her breathing raspy and uneven. She was burning up. I could feel her little fingers clutching my shirt, desperate and trembling. All I could do was hold her tighter, wishing I could take her pain for myself. The monitor beeped steadily, each sound jabbing at my nerves, matching the wild thumping of my heart.

The hospital room reeked of disinfectant. I hated that smell. Miranda’s nail polish hung in the air, sickly-sweet, layered over the sterile chill of the fluorescent lights buzzing above. The whole place felt stripped of warmth, as if even hope had been wiped away. I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to gag.

“Good riddance if that little money pit dies, huh?”

She let out a low, mean laugh, her phone’s blue glow painting her face in ghostly light. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the room, sharp and cold. She didn’t even glance up, just kept tapping away at her phone, thumbs moving a mile a minute. For a second, I wondered if she even remembered we were there.

In the end, my daughter’s hand slipped from my palm. My eyes stung. When I blinked, Miranda’s voice sliced through the fog:

“Babe, my brother wants to start a business. Wire him a hundred grand later, okay?”

Back then, I always caved. Every single time. It didn’t matter how many times I gave in—none of it ever saved her. I thought I was buying peace, but every time, I just lost more of myself. And I lost her, too.

This time, I wouldn’t cave.

But then—again—Miranda’s voice echoed in my ears:

“Babe, my brother wants to start a business. Wire him a hundred grand later, okay?”

I froze. For a second, it was like the world tilted. I felt like I was outside my own body, watching everything play out again, like some twisted rerun I couldn’t turn off. Seriously?

It took a moment to sink in—I’d been given a second chance. Just like that.

Memories flooded back. Like a tidal wave, they crashed over me. The weight of regret pressed down, thick and suffocating. But somewhere under all that pain, a stubborn ember of hope sparked to life. Maybe, just maybe, this time I could do it right.

On this day in my last life, I kept hesitating. I remember staring at the ceiling, desperate for some kind of sign. All I got was silence—and that ache in my gut that wouldn’t quit. I wanted to scream.

Her brother was lazy by nature. Never kept a real job, always mooching off us. He’d show up with big dreams and even bigger promises, but all he ever delivered was trouble. Why did I let it go on so long?

Every business he tried flopped. Restaurant, vape shop, tech startup—none of it lasted more than a few months. He just left behind a mess of unpaid bills and broken promises. It was always the same story.

But I still wired the money. Told myself it was just this once. Family means sacrifice, right? Deep down, I knew the truth: I was just scared of another fight with Miranda.

I never expected what came next.

Half a year later, because of that hundred grand, the company’s cash flow tanked. We went bankrupt. All those late nights, all that hustle—gone, just like that. I remember watching my staff pack up their desks, their faces hollow with worry. I’d let them down, too.

A year after that, Autumn was diagnosed with leukemia. The news didn’t just hurt—it obliterated me. I sat in the doctor’s office, hands numb, as the words hit me: “aggressive, advanced, urgent.” My whole world fell apart.

I remember my daughter curled up in my arms, her forehead burning against my neck, her breath ragged. Every day, she seemed to shrink, slipping away from me, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.

She was still whispering:

“Daddy, it hurts...”

I gripped the medical report so tight my knuckles went white. The surgery would cost $80,000. The numbers blurred on the page, but I couldn’t look away. Eighty grand. It might as well have been a million. My chest ached with helplessness.

The hospital stank of disinfectant, Miranda’s nail polish sickly sweet. The scent clung to my clothes, haunting me long after I left the room. It was a constant reminder of everything I couldn’t fix. I wanted to scrub it away, but it always lingered.

“Where’s the money?”

My throat felt raw. I tasted blood. My voice cracked, desperate and pleading.

“The hundred grand your brother took—have him pay half of it back!”

She rolled her eyes, sneering:

“It’s only right for me to help my own brother. What makes you think you can ask for it back?”

In the end, my daughter didn’t get treatment in time. She died in my arms. Her last breath was barely a sigh, her hand limp in mine. I would’ve given anything—anything—to trade places with her.

Holding her cold little body, I broke. I rocked her, sobbing, hoping my love could bring her back. But she was gone. There was nothing left but grief.

Then Miranda spat something even more vicious:

“Girls are just a burden. Good thing she’s dead.”

I snapped. In a blind rage, I grabbed her and jumped from the 18th floor. I remember the rush of wind, the scream, that moment of weightlessness—and then nothing. Oblivion almost felt like mercy.

It was only as I was dying that it hit me—my wife had always been obsessed with her brother. She’d never really been mine. All those years, I was just a placeholder, a wallet, a means to an end. It burned.

Her parents always favored sons over daughters, and she’d soaked that up. It was like she’d been programmed from birth to put him first, no matter what it cost.

She only ever counted her little brother’s family as her real family. We were just extras in her story, disposable.

To her, my daughter and I were nothing. That cut deeper than any wound. It was the final blow, the one that finished me.