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. Dad was taken aback for a second, then nodded. "Okay, that's a good idea. It'll be easier on you and Mom. I'll call an agency right now." My heart sank like a stone. She was coming. 3 The next afternoon, a woman in her forties appeared at our door. She wore a plain gray coat and had an anxious, eager-to-please smile on her face. "Hello, the agency sent me. My name is Brenda." It was her. In my last life, this woman, Brenda, had been our nanny for three years. She was efficient and quiet, with a harmless, salt-of-the-earth look. Dad and Grandma sang her praises, and Mom trusted her like family. No one could have ever guessed what a venomous heart beat beneath that unassuming exterior. A tremor of fear shot through my body, and I let out a terrified wail. From her bed, Grandma heard me and called out, "Rachel, is that the nanny? Let her in, the baby's probably hungry." My mother stepped aside to let Brenda in, never once looking her in the eye. She gestured vaguely toward Grandma's room. "The baby and my mother-in-law both need care. She'll give you the details." With that, she turned to go back to her room. "Excuse me, ma'am," Brenda called out, her smile fixed in place. "I'm here for the interview. Don't you want to see my ID and health certificate? Or ask me any questions?" "If my mother-in-law is happy, that's all that matters," Mom said, and shut her bedroom door. Brenda's smile twitched. A flicker of something dark—annoyance? malice?—crossed her eyes before it was replaced again by her folksy demeanor. She walked into Grandma's room and expertly took me from her arms, patting my back and humming a tuneless lullaby. "There, there, little one. Auntie Brenda's got you. No more crying now." Her voice was gentle, but the moment I was in her arms, I was hit by that familiar, nauseating smell of cheap soap. The terror of my final moments from my past life seized me, and I screamed even louder, thrashing my arms and legs, trying to escape the devil's embrace. "Oh dear, she's a bit shy with strangers," Grandma said apologetically. Brenda just chuckled. "Don't you worry, ma'am. All babies are like this. We'll be best friends in a few days. I've cared for babies much fussier than this little one." Her easy confidence soothed Grandma's concerns. She mixed my formula, tested the temperature on her wrist, and placed the nipple in my mouth. I fought back, pushing it away with my tongue and turning my head, my cries my only form of protest. "Well now," Brenda said, her voice taking on a strange, theatrical tone of concern. "The little thing won't even eat. Do you think… do you think she might have some kind of developmental issue?" 4 Brenda's words were like a shard of poisoned ice, stabbing straight into my infant heart. Fear and despair washed over me, and I started screaming again, a raw, gut-wrenching sound of pure agony this time. But the harder I cried, the wider her smile became. She held me, rocking me gently, murmuring empty words of comfort while her eyes remained as cold and hard as a snake's. "Go on, cry it out," she whispered, for my ears only. "You'll tire yourself out soon enough." She placed me in my crib and left me there, turning to start dinner in the kitchen. My cries woke Grandma in the next room. "Brenda?" she called out weakly. "What's wrong with the baby?" Brenda's head popped out of the kitchen, her voice pitched with just the right amount of helplessness. "I've tried everything, ma'am! But her mother won't hold her, and she just won't stop crying." Grandma sighed and fell silent. I cried until my throat was hoarse, until my whole body was trembling and my hands and feet were ice-cold. This couldn't go on. My tears wouldn't earn me any sympathy; they only delighted my enemy. I had to find another way. After dinner, Brenda came to feed me again. I was exhausted and starving after my afternoon of hysterics. This time, I didn't fight. I drank the milk quietly. Brenda seemed surprised but didn't think much of it, assuming I had simply worn myself out. When I finished, she lifted me to her shoulder to burp me. And that’s when I saw my chance. With my face pressed against her shoulder, I summoned every ounce of strength I had, opened my toothless mouth, and clamped down on the soft flesh of her shoulder. I had no teeth, but I used all my might, grinding my gums into her skin with the same desperate force I used to nurse. "Ah!" Brenda shrieked in pain, her immediate instinct to throw me off her. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact. It would hurt, but it was a risk I had to take. I had to create evidence that she was a danger to me. But just as I felt myself falling, a pair of strong, trembling hands caught me, securing me in a steady grip. My eyes flew open. I was staring up into the frantic, worried face of my father. He was back. He had come home early. "Jacob? What are you doing home?" Grandma called out in surprise. My father’s expression was grim. He held me tightly, his gaze fixed like a laser on the terrified nanny. "The project wrapped up early. I walk in the door and I see you about to drop my daughter! Brenda, what the hell are you doing?!" Brenda's face went white as a sheet. She clutched her shoulder, stammering. "Mr. Miller, no, it's a misunderstanding! It was the baby… she bit me, out of nowhere! It hurt so much, my hand just slipped… I didn't mean to!" She was already tearing up, putting on a masterful performance of a wrongly accused victim. "She bit you?" Dad frowned, looking down at me. I immediately played my part, opening my mouth to give him a gummy, innocent, and completely harmless smile. What kind of damage could a newborn possibly do? Dad was clearly thinking the same thing, and his suspicion of Brenda deepened. "Let me see the wound." Brenda's face grew even paler. "It's nothing, Mr. Miller, really. Just a little red mark, it's fine…" she stammered, covering her shoulder. Her reluctance only made my father more determined. He took a step forward, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Move your hand." Terrified, Brenda flinched and dropped her hand. Dad pulled back the collar of her shirt. There on her shoulder was a clear, angry red mark, already starting to purple at the edges. It looked… exactly like a bite mark. A vicious one. How was that possible? I didn't have any teeth. My heart sank. I knew instantly what had happened. In my past life, Brenda had a strange habit of drinking a specific herbal tea, claiming it was for her "health." I remembered knocking her cup over once, and she had completely panicked. That tea. It had to be the cause. It must have made her skin hypersensitive, so fragile that the slightest pressure would leave a terrible bruise. She had been planning this all along. 5 Dad’s brow was furrowed in a deep line, the anger in his eyes slowly giving way to confusion. He looked down at me, a helpless infant. How could I have possibly caused an injury like that? Seeing his hesitation, Brenda burst into a flood of tears, sobbing as if her heart would break. "Mr. Miller, I swear I didn't do it on purpose. This baby… I don't know what it is, but she's been hostile to me from the moment I arrived. Nothing I do can soothe her; she just cries and fusses. Just now, after her bottle, I was burping her and she just… she lunged at me, like she was trying to hurt me. It was such a shock, I almost lost my grip." She punctuated her story with sobs, sneaking glances at my father's face. "Her grandmother can vouch for me! I've been working so hard these past few days. I would never, ever do anything to harm a child!" From her bed, Grandma chimed in. "She's right, Jacob. Brenda has been wonderful. It's the baby who's been unusually difficult. Maybe… maybe she and Brenda just don't get along." My father stood there, holding me, trapped in silence. On one side was the seemingly honest, deeply wronged nanny. On the other was his own daughter, who was indeed acting strangely. He couldn't make sense of it. Just then, the master bedroom door opened again. My mother emerged, drawn out by the argument. Her gaze swept over the scene—Brenda's tear-streaked face, me in my father's arms, his own conflicted expression. "What's going on?" she asked. Dad quickly explained what had happened. Rachel listened without a flicker of emotion on her face. When he was done, she gave Brenda a cool, appraising look. Brenda immediately saw her as a potential ally. "Ma'am, I'm so sorry. Maybe… maybe it's best if you just let me go. I'm so afraid I might accidentally hurt the baby if I stay." There it was again: her signature move, feigning retreat to gain ground. Everyone looked at my mother. As the lady of the house and my mother, her word was final. I watched her, my tiny heart pounding in my chest. Who would she believe? In our last life, she had trusted Brenda implicitly. In this one, she treated me with nothing but cold indifference. The answer seemed painfully obvious. My mother was silent for a long moment. Just as I braced myself for her to agree with Grandma and ask Brenda to stay, she said something that stunned everyone. "Since it's not working out, she can leave." Her voice was quiet, but it was laced with steel. The room fell silent. Brenda’s tears froze on her cheeks. She stared at my mother, utterly baffled. "Ma'am, you…"
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