Everyone used to tell me I hit the jackpot. I got the trophy wife—beautiful, smart, and a whiz with a budget. Only my five-year-old, Quinn, looked at me like I was a textbook case of bad judgment. That was until my wife’s "close colleague" moved in, wearing my tailored blazers and using my shaving kit. Quinn shook me awake in the middle of the night. “Dad, what on earth are you still holding onto with a snake like that?” I stared at her. "What did you say?" She sighed. "I lived to be twenty-five in my last life. I watched you put up with her for your whole adult life." “This time, just listen to me. Get a divorce.” “Once you do, I’ll set you up with a real stunner. Hotter than Mom, sweeter than Mom, and the key thing? She’ll only have eyes for you.” 01 Geneva’s cheating was broken to me by my daughter, Quinn. She was five, just started kindergarten. She walked in that day, tossed her pink backpack onto the sofa, and came straight over to me. “Dad, Mom’s seeing someone else.” I was wiping down the kitchen counter. My hand froze for a second, then I kept wiping. “Don’t talk nonsense.” “It’s not nonsense.” She climbed onto a high barstool, swinging her little legs. “I saw her today at the mall. She was wrapped around some guy—tall, wearing a black leather jacket.” I tossed the rag into the sink, splashing water onto my hand. “You must have been mistaken.” “I wasn’t mistaken.” She hopped off the stool and stood in front of me, looking up. “Dad, it’s okay to cry. You’ll feel better if you let it out.” I didn't cry. I actually laughed. “Kid, you’ve been watching too many soap operas.” She shook her head, reaching for my hand. It was so small and soft. “Dad, I’m not a kid.” She spoke slowly, every word measured. “The truth is… I came back from eighteen years in the future.” I froze. “Eighteen years from now, you’re dead,” she said, her eyes turning red fast. “Lung cancer. Stage four, right out of the gate. Mom was remarried by then. Three months after your funeral. She said a house couldn’t run without a man, and Daisy was still young.” The kitchen light flickered. I felt a sudden rush of dizziness. “I didn’t cry, honest.” She wiped her eyes, leaving a wet streak on her hand. “I didn’t cry at your wake. Grandpa Rose said I was cold, said I had no heart. But I knew. I remembered the last six months, you hurting, unable to sleep all night, and not one of them was there to ease the pain.” I stumbled back, leaning against the refrigerator. One of Daisy’s little art magnets slid off and hit the floor with a hollow clack. “Dad.” She came closer, hugging my leg this time. “Stop doing all the chores for her. Your cooking is the best, but she always found something to pick at. She’d complain that all you did was ‘hang around the house,’ and still couldn’t even keep the place clean.” I wanted to deny it, to say, Gen wouldn’t say that. But the words wouldn't come out. Because last Wednesday night, she did say exactly that. I’d made her favorite Sticky Ribs, and she said they were too sweet, not salty enough, and the meat was tough. Then she took a call, said her friend had an emergency, and walked out. “Dad.” Quinn looked up, tears blurring her face. “Come with me. I can make money. I can take care of you.” “You’re only five…” “I’m twenty-three,” she cut in, her voice suddenly rock-steady. “In my timeline, I was twenty-three, a Vice President at a major investment bank. I could afford a house, a live-in nanny. I could let you sleep in every day and not have to be up at six to make breakfast.” I knelt down, meeting her gaze. Those eyes were too familiar. They weren’t a five-year-old’s eyes. There was something in them I didn’t understand, but I knew it wasn't a lie. “Why did you come back?” I whispered. “Because I missed you.” The tears started again. “I missed you for eighteen years. Every night. I remember those last days, you were so thin, just a pile of bones, but you still insisted on getting up to make Daisy and me breakfast. You said you didn't want us to be late for school.” She reached out and touched my face, her small fingers trembling. “Dad, she’s not worth it,” she said. “She’s not worth it, and neither are we. You ran yourself into the ground, and it didn't even help us grow up right. I was twenty-three and terrified to date, afraid I’d turn into you. Daisy was worse. She ended up…” She didn't finish the sentence, but I knew it wasn't good. A key turning in the lock outside. Quinn instantly wiped her tears, pulled away from me, and ran to the sofa to grab a picture book. When the door opened, she was already pointing at a bear on the page. “Dad, this little bear is so cute.” Geneva walked in, dropping her handbag by the door. She glanced at me. “Why are you just standing there, Adam? Is dinner ready?” I didn't move. Quinn jumped off the sofa and ran to her. “Mom, Dad isn’t feeling well today. Let’s order takeout.” Geneva frowned. “What’s the drama?” “No drama.” Quinn tilted her head up, giving her a sweet smile. “I really want a burger. Dad’s cooking every day gets boring. Let’s mix it up.” Geneva looked at me. “You’re not well?” I looked at her face. I’d seen this face for seven years—five years married, two years dating. I used to think she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Now, I suddenly noticed the fine lines around her eyes, the constant edge of impatience around her mouth. When she looked at me, there was very little warmth. “Yeah,” I said. “Headache.” “Fine. Order takeout.” She put down her bag. “I have a video conference in half an hour. Call me when the burgers arrive.” She walked into the bedroom. Quinn ran over and pulled my hand. “Dad, let’s go change.” “Change into what?” “That black suit. The really sharp one,” she dragged me toward the walk-in closet. “The last time I saw you wear it was my fifth birthday. You never wore it again after that.” There was a black suit in the closet. We bought it for our anniversary. Geneva said it was too formal for daily wear. Quinn pulled it out and shook it open. “Put it on.” “Why do I need to wear this now?” “Wear it for me.” She insisted. “Dad, you’re thirty-one. Not seventy-one.” I changed into the suit. The man in the mirror was a stranger. My body wasn’t bad, but my complexion was dull, and there were dark circles under my eyes. Quinn climbed onto the dressing table and picked up my hair gel. “This one holds well.” She uncapped it and handed it to me. “A little spray.” I sprayed it. She then opened the aftershave, her movements unnervingly practiced for a child. She dabbed some on my face, straightened my collar, her touch gentle. “You’ll get even hotter,” she said. “A hundred times hotter than this. Lots of people will chase you. There’s this gallery owner who’s obsessed with you, chased you for three years. But you never said yes.” I looked at her. “How do you know that?” “Because I saw it.” She put the aftershave down and scrutinized my face. “Before I came back to this world, I visited another one in my dreams. In that world, you didn’t die. You divorced, opened an auto repair shop, you dressed sharply, and had a ton of friends. When you were fifty, you took up mountain climbing and posted pictures on Instagram, smiling so genuinely.” She jumped off the dressing table and pulled my hand toward the door. “In that world, every time I saw you, I cried,” she said. “Because I knew that dad wasn't my dad. My dad died at thirty-one. His last words were, Don’t forget the noodles on the counter.” She pushed the door open. Geneva was coming out of the bedroom just then. She saw me and stopped dead. “You…” She tried to speak. “Why are you so dressed up?” Quinn cut in before I could answer. “Dad’s taking me out for dinner. Mom, you can order your own takeout. We’re getting French.” She yanked me toward the exit. Geneva called from behind, “Adam Kincaid!” I didn't look back. Quinn tiptoed to open the door, pushed me out, then squeezed out herself, pulling the door shut behind us. The motion-sensor light in the hallway flickered on. She pulled me down the stairs, skipping two steps at a time. She pushed open the main door on the ground floor, and the evening breeze rushed in, lifting her hair. She stopped under a streetlamp, catching her breath, and looked at me with a smile. “Dad,” she said. “From today, I’ve got you.” I looked at her glowing eyes, and suddenly felt like I really had died once already. And now, I was alive again. 02 That steak dinner cost us three-hundred-and-eight dollars. Quinn sat across from me, cutting her steak with a scary level of expertise. She even ordered a whiskey for me. The waiter looked at her like she was an alien. “Kids can’t drink,” the waiter said. “It’s for my dad,” Quinn said without flinching. “He needs it.” When the drink arrived, she poured me a glass. “Drink it, Dad. When was the last time you had a drink?” I thought about it. I couldn't remember. Probably at the wedding, the champagne toast. Gen said I had a low tolerance and told me to stop drinking. And I did. I picked up the glass and took a sip. It was strong. Quinn watched me, and then suddenly said, “Dad, do you remember taking me to the amusement park when I was three?” “I do.” “Mom had promised to come, but she canceled last minute, saying her friend had an emergency.” She cut the steak, the knife and fork clinking against the plate. “You took me on the roller coaster all by yourself, waited in line for ice cream, and carried me for two miles looking for a bathroom. When we got home, I fell asleep on your shoulder, and your arm was sore for a week.” I remembered. Gen definitely didn't come that day. She said a very important friend had broken up with her and she couldn't leave. She didn't get home until ten that night, and I smelled men's cologne on her. When I mentioned it, she snapped that I was being ridiculous, and it was the friend’s boyfriend’s. “I remember thinking,” Quinn put the steak in her mouth and chewed slowly, “when I grow up, I’m never going to let my dad be this tired.” She swallowed and looked up at me. “But when I grew up, you were already gone.” Other tables were loud with laughter, couples feeding each other, a kid throwing a fit. Only our table was hushed, like a funeral reception. “Dad.” She put down her silverware. “Get a divorce.” I stayed silent. “The house, the car, the savings—take everything you’re entitled to. She has a high-end PR firm, shares, and you’re the legal husband. You can split it all,” she said, her expression as cool as if she were discussing a stranger’s affairs. “I know you’re soft-hearted, but don’t be this time. In the last life, you were too soft. You took nothing but custody of Daisy and me. And what happened? She kept dragging her feet on the support payments.” I looked at her. A five-year-old face, a twenty-three-year-old gaze. “How do you know all this?” I asked. “I read your journal,” she said. “I found it under your desk after you died. A hardback notebook, the cover was worn thin. You wrote about everything, starting from the day you got married, right up to the day you were diagnosed with cancer.” She paused, her voice dropping. “The last entry read: My greatest regret was giving everything I had to others, and keeping nothing, absolutely nothing, for myself.” My hands were shaking. She saw it and reached over to hold them. “Dad, this time is different.” Her grip was firm. “I’m here now. I know all her tricks. I know what Grandma Rose will say. I know how to find the evidence and the right lawyer. Trust me this once, okay?” I looked at her for a long time. Then I said, “Okay.” She smiled. Her eyes curved up, and for the first time, she looked like a five-year-old kid. 03 We got home at ten. The living room light was still on. Geneva was sitting on the sofa, a pile of snack wrappers in the trash can next to her. “Decided to show up?” Her voice was ice. Quinn stepped in front of me. “We went out for dinner.” “Did I ask you?” She looked past Quinn to me. “Adam Kincaid, are you getting brave now? No dinner, no watching your kid, just running off dressed like a runway model?” I stood my ground, saying nothing. Quinn tugged my hand and whispered, “Dad, go take a shower. I’ll handle the rest.” I hesitated, but she pushed me. “Go.” I went into the bathroom. As the hot water ran, I heard their voices outside the door. Quinn’s voice was calm. “Mom, let’s talk.” “What is there to talk about with you?” “Let’s talk about you and the guy in the black leather jacket,” she said. “I took pictures. Want to see them?” There was a few seconds of silence outside. Then Geneva's voice, low and sharp. “What are you talking about?” “Fifth floor of the mall, outside the Boba shop, three p.m. yesterday.” Quinn recited it like a police report. “He had his arm around your waist. You bought him a watch—$5,200, swiped your card. The receipt’s in your bag. Want me to go grab it?” I turned off the water and pressed my ear to the door. Geneva's voice was starting to sound rattled. “Did your father make you take those pictures?” “I took them myself,” Quinn said. “Mom, I’m only five, but I’m not an idiot. I know your phone password is my birthday. I’ve known it forever. The guy in your texts, ‘Troy E.’? That’s Troy Evans, your firm’s new twenty-four-year-old marketing coordinator. Fresh out of college. Really, Gen? Him?” “Quinn Kincaid!” Geneva roared. “Shh, Dad’s showering.” Quinn’s voice remained even. “Mom, if you want to play around, fine. But don’t bring it home. If you insist on bringing him home, then file the papers first, split the assets cleanly, and then you can bring home whoever you want.” I heard the sound of a handbag being opened—Geneva was likely searching for the receipt. “Honey, you’re too young to understand,” Geneva’s tone softened slightly. “Mom has a lot of pressure at work. Sometimes I need to decompress. But that doesn’t change how much I love your father and this family.” “Really?” Quinn chuckled. “So last Wednesday, when you said your friend had an emergency, you were actually watching that romantic drama with him? Back row of the theater? You two were holding hands while Dad was home reheating your soup for the third time.” The silence outside was absolute. I pulled the door open and stepped out. Geneva saw me, and her face fell. Quinn ran over and grabbed my hand, her palm slick with sweat. “Dad, you’re done?” I nodded, looking at Geneva. “Is what she said true?” Geneva stood up, reaching for me. “Adam, let me explain—” “Just tell me if it’s true or false.” She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. I looked at her and felt a strange, cold amusement. Seven years. I’d done her laundry, cooked her meals, earned the money, and looked after her parents. When she was struggling to launch her firm, I gave her my entire savings for my own venture. She told me to focus on the family, so I shifted my career from project lead to support and logistics. And now, she was telling me she was under pressure and needed to decompress. “Gen Rose,” I said. “We’re getting divorced.” She was stunned. Quinn gripped my hand tighter. “What did you say?” “Divorce,” I repeated. “The house, the car, the savings—everything gets split. I want half of the firm’s shares. The kids stay with me. You pay child support.” Geneva looked at me like a stranger. “Adam Kincaid, are you out of your mind? Do you know what my firm is worth? You want half? Do you even understand how to run it?” “I don’t,” I said. “But the law does.” Her face darkened. Quinn suddenly spoke up. “Mom, if you don’t agree, I’ll send the pictures to your firm’s group chat. Your phone is synced to your office computer. I know the password. I can access the chat.” Geneva snapped her head toward Quinn, her eyes murderous. “You wouldn’t dare!” “Try me,” Quinn said, meeting her gaze without flinching. “I’m five. I could probably get away with murder. Want to find out?” Geneva raised her hand, and I stepped forward to shield Quinn. “Try to hit her.” Her hand froze in mid-air. We stood there locked in a silent standoff, the living room clock ticking away the seconds. Finally, Geneva dropped her hand, smoothing her dress. “Fine, Adam. You’re playing hardball. You have guts.” She grabbed her bag and slammed out the door. The moment the door closed, my legs went weak. I nearly collapsed onto the floor. Quinn caught me. “Dad, are you okay?” I shook my head, looking at her. “Those photos… did you really take them?” She blinked. “I lied. Where would I get a phone to take pictures?” “Then the mall, did you really see it?” “I saw it,” she confirmed. “But no photos. I just said that to scare her.” I was speechless. She led me to the sofa and leaned against my shoulder. “Dad, with people like her, you have to be tougher. The softer you are, the more she’ll walk all over you.” I stroked her hair, a hollow space in my chest. “Quinn,” I asked. “Was the last life… really that awful?” She didn't answer, just hugged me tighter. After a long while, she said, “Dad, not this time.” “I promise.” 04 Geneva didn’t come back the next morning. When Quinn woke up, she went to the kitchen and warmed milk, toasted bread, and fried an egg for me. “Dad, breakfast.” She carried the plate to the bedside. I looked at the perfectly fried egg, the edges crisp and golden. “When did you learn to cook?” “Last life.” She climbed onto the bed next to me. “I learned when you were sick. After you were gone, I had to take care of Daisy.” She took a bite of her toast, chewing slowly. I suddenly remembered to ask, “Where’s Daisy?” “At kindergarten. It’s Friday, so we pick her up this afternoon. Dad, go see the lawyer today. Before Mom has time to think.” I sat up. “So fast?” “Fast,” she nodded. “She’s definitely going to meet up with Troy to plan their next move. If they get their story straight and come up with a strategy, we’ll be on the defensive.” She hopped off the bed and pulled a piece of paper from her tiny backpack. “This is the best divorce lawyer in the city. I looked him up in the last life. Mr. Alistair Cross. Specializes in this exact kind of case. Tell him I sent you.” I took the slip of paper. It had a name and number. “How did you…?” “I did my homework before I came back.” She smiled. “Your daughter is pretty smart, Dad.” I looked at her smiling face, and my last bit of hesitation vanished. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”
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