Who would've guessed Eleanor would go so far as to erase all my official records tied to our home, without even telling me, to crush my hopes completely?

When my maternity leave ended and I went back to work, I walked straight into a nightmare.

That was when I discovered the truth: I had already been flagged as an unregistered individual, a ghost in the system.

Legally, I did not even exist.

Furious, I confronted Paul and Eleanor, demanding an explanation. But they just brushed me off, tossing out vague excuses like it was no big deal and like I was the one being dramatic.

With no way to restore my original records, I had no choice but to register temporarily under the Wilson family's address. And that decision came with consequences I never could have imagined.

Due to that registration switch, my family's farmland, which spans over eighty acres, was seized by the state.

Just like that, it was gone.

And my job? I lost that, too. Not having legal status meant I couldn't work. I was stuck, trapped in a marriage far from home with no options and nowhere to go, and forced into becoming a full-time housewife, shackled to my mother-in-law's daily insults and endless torment.

Years dragged by.

And when Nathan turned eighteen, he failed the college entrance exam and missed the cutoff by exactly fifteen points.

I remember the way Eleanor clutched his score report in her hand, her voice dripping with blame as she shoved the failure in my face.

"If your selfish mother hadn't refused to register you under her name, you wouldn't have to suffer through this awful repeat year, my poor grandson."

That was the moment everything snapped. How dare she blame me when it was she who had refused to let my son be registered under me in the first place?

Right then, all the bottled-up resentment, disappointment, and bitterness finally erupted.

My son, my own flesh and blood, grabbed a fruit knife and lunged at me.

The blade glinted, a flash of silver coming straight for my face.

I barely had time to scream. "No—!"

"Patient is regaining consciousness. The newborn's vitals are stable. Surgery complete."

The anesthesiologist's voice floated near my ear, pulling me back into the light.

My eyes flew open in a panic, my heart pounding as I scanned the room, desperately searching for my newborn son.

"Bring the newborn out so the family can see," I heard one of the nurses say. "Seriously, doesn't that old woman ever get tired? She's been yelling for two straight hours."

I saw her turn toward the door, cradling my baby in her arms.

A surge of adrenaline shot through me, cutting right through the haze.

I cried out, forcing my voice past the rawness in my throat. "No! Please don't take him out. Please, I beg you!"

The staff froze mid-step. Their expressions shifted instantly, their eyes flicking toward each other, unsure and a little suspicious.

"Amara," the lead surgeon, Dr. Jones, said gently, stepping closer with a warm, careful smile, "your baby's perfectly healthy—six pounds, eight ounces. And he looks a lot like you."

Dr. Jones raised the little bundle slightly so I could see him, her voice softening as she continued. "You've just gone through surgery. Your body needs rest. Your family should look after him for now."

But she must've seen the panic on my face. The dread must have been written all over me, because her tone shifted again, this time more cautious and understanding.

"Your mother-in-law's been completely out of line, but don't worry about her and just focus on recovering. She's not going to hurt the baby."

No, she didn't get it. None of them did.

I watched the nurse inch closer to the door with my son. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest. I wasn't letting history repeat itself.

I reached out, grabbing the surgeon's white coat with all the strength I had left.

"Please," I whispered, then louder, "please don't hand him to my mother-in-law or my husband. You have to give him to Nurse Clara Smith. She's the only one I trust. Please."

Dr. Jones's brows furrowed, clearly trying to make sense of my desperation, but something in my voice must have gotten through to her. She patted my hand gently, reassuringly.

"The maternity nurse is probably more responsible than that old witch anyway," she said with a sigh. "Don't worry. I'll stay with her and keep an eye on your son."

Right then, the delivery room doors opened.

Aunt Clara came rushing in, breathless, and immediately scooped my baby into her arms, holding him tight against her chest like he was her own.

Eleanor stormed in right after her, face thunderous, barreling forward to grab him, only to be blocked by Dr. Jones, who stepped in between them without flinching.

Only when I saw with my own eyes that my baby was safe in Aunt Clara's arms did my body finally give in. The adrenaline drained, and the anesthesia pulled me under once again.

Darkness.

...

"She's still asleep? Are you kidding me? What kind of woman sleeps this long after giving birth?"

"I don't know what's wrong with that crazy old nurse," another voice snapped. "She's clinging to my grandson like a lunatic. Won't even let me hold him."

Then came that all-too-familiar condescending whine.

"Paul, you don't think that old hag got tricked by that little tramp, do you? What if she's planning to snatch the baby and run now that her registration scheme failed?"

Paul let out a groan, clearly annoyed after losing another game on his phone.

"Will you give it a rest already? If you hadn't spent two hours screaming your head off at the nurse outside the delivery room, she wouldn't be suspicious to begin with. Just shut up already. She's starting to wake up. You want to blow everything right now? Think you can fix that mess?"

Eleanor's voice lowered to a hiss, but she kept going.

"I'm just saying that if she wakes up and remembers what the baby looks like, switching them out will be harder."

Paul actually laughed.

"What's so hard about that? I already looked at both babies. They look the same. She won't know the difference."

And that was the moment everything inside me broke.

I heard every word.

The betrayal hit like cold water poured over my spine. My whole body went numb, but inside, it felt like fire—like ants crawling through my veins and gnawing at my bones.

So it was true.

My gut had never been wrong.

The son I'd almost died giving birth to the baby they claimed had 'supermale syndrome' had never even been mine.

They had switched my baby.

All those years. All that pain. All that loss.

It wasn't some tragic misunderstanding. It was planned. Deliberate.

My fury from eighteen years, buried and smoldering, erupted like wildfire.

The machines hooked up to my body began to scream, beeping faster and louder with every second.

"Amara! Wake up! Can you hear me?" someone shouted from the bed. "Amara, please don't scare me. Come on. Wake up!"

I heard Dr. Jones and Aunt Clara calling my name in alarm. Slowly, I opened my eyes, still groggy from the anesthesia.

"Amara, look at the baby. His little face is so pink and healthy!" Aunt Clara said, her voice bubbling with excitement.

But the moment I laid eyes on the child in her arms, something deep in my chest tightened. I couldn't shake the feeling. Something was wrong.

In my last life, my son had been switched.

The baby in Aunt Clara's arms shared similar features but was not identical to my son in the past. This baby clearly had warm honey-brown eyes.

But the boy who stabbed me eighteen years later? The one who called me selfish, who twisted the knife my mother-in-law handed him, who helped destroy my life, had swollen, dark brown eyes.

I reached out, wanting and needing to hold him. But just as my fingertips brushed the edge of the swaddle, Eleanor bulldozed straight into Aunt Clara, slamming her shoulder and snatching the baby right out of her arms.

"Newborns' bones aren't fully developed! Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?" the surgeon snapped, glaring at her with pure rage.

But that woman didn't even flinch. Her expression twisted into something smug and defensive.

"I've raised two kids of my own. Don't act like you know more than me about holding a baby," Eleanor shot back, like she was teaching the doctor a lesson.

Then she turned downright nasty.

"You think you're something special just because you performed a C-section? If my daughter weren't too busy, I wouldn't have needed someone from outside to deliver my golden grandson. So do us all a favor and stay in your lane."

Once she'd yanked the baby away, she backed off behind Paul like she had every right in the world to do what she did.

Paul, cold as ever, looked the doctor right in the eyes and said, calm as you please, "Dr. Jones, my mom just wanted a quick look at the baby. He's been born for a while now, and she hasn't even gotten to see him. Of course she's anxious."

Then came the kicker.

"We're transferring to my sister's department tomorrow anyway. There's no need for you to get involved in our family's business."

Translation? Back off. You're no longer needed.

The surgeon didn't say a word. She gave one last furious glare and stormed out of the room.

"That damn surgeon thinks she runs the place," my mother-in-law grumbled. "If she hadn't stuck her nose in, I'd already be holding my grandson."

Then her eyes landed on Aunt Clara.

"And you," she spat, her tone like venom, "don't forget who signs your paycheck. You work for my son, Paul, and not her. Don't even think about crossing me."

Eleanor then hugged the baby so tightly that his little face scrunched up, and then the wailing began. His tiny cries pierced right through me.

"Mom, the baby's crying," I said gently. "Let me hold him for a bit."

But she took two steps back like I was covered in disease.

"You're soaked in blood and smell like it, too. I'm not letting that filth touch my grandson," she said, refusing even to meet my eyes.

Then, without another word, Eleanor turned and walked right out of the room, taking the baby with her.

I turned to Paul, my voice low and steady. "Why won't your mom let me see the baby? Did something happen while I was in surgery that she doesn't want me to know about?"

He kept his face neutral, but his eyes darted.

"She's just worried about you," he said carefully. "You barely made it through childbirth. She wants you to rest."

I let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, now she's worried? That's rich. I thought your mother was terrified I'd register the baby under my name. We agreed, didn't we? That the child would be registered under me. So why is she suddenly trying to change that?"

Paul hesitated, then gave the excuse like he'd rehearsed it in front of a mirror.

"Amara, I didn't think it through. When Mom heard the baby might be registered under your name, she couldn't sleep. She couldn't eat. She dropped so much weight."

He softened his tone, trying to come across as the good guy. "I know you only want what's best for our son. But you have to understand that Mom raised me all on her own after the divorce. It wasn't easy for her. If people in the neighborhood found out her grandson was registered under someone else's name, she'd be humiliated."

I stared at him. Not saying a word.

Paul took a step closer and reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear like he used to do when we were in college.

"Amara, I already scolded her," he said softly. "I'm sorry for how she handled this. Please don't hold it against her. She's been through so much. I work far away, and I barely get to come home. Can't we just cut her a little slack?"

Inside, I was boiling.

I let out a short, cold laugh in my mind. 'Your mother's tough life isn't my responsibility. Her loneliness and bitterness aren't mine to fix. Those are the consequences of her own choices. What about me? You get to live wherever you want, with peace, while I'm stuck under the same roof as her. I've had to take every jab, every insult. Is that easy for me?'

Right then, I pushed his hand away and looked him right in the eye.

"But if the baby is registered under your name," I said flatly, "then my family's farmland and all 13 acres will go to waste."

Paul's eyes flickered. He opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something. I didn't let him.

"Well, since you and your mom already made that decision without me," I continued, "I'll respect it. I'll transfer ownership of the land to a friend."

Paul's expression shifted in an instant.

"That land's worth a lot," he said, his voice rising. "You can't just let that fall into someone else's hands!"

I stayed calm, already pulling out my phone.

"I don't have much of a choice," I said matter-of-factly. "You're always gone for work. Your mom refuses to move anywhere near my family's place back in Montana. So this is the only real option."

I started dialing.

Instantly, Paul lunged forward and snatched the phone right out of my hands, gripping it like a lifeline.

"If it's between your sketchy friends getting it or the government seizing it," he snapped, "I'd rather see it confiscated."

"After all, your parents have been gone for years. The state raised you. You should be grateful."

In my past life, I actually bought into that manipulative nonsense about gratitude.

I was so desperate to be accepted that I handed over the ownership documents for our family's farm and more than thirteen acres of mountain land, thinking Paul would handle the paperwork properly and submit everything to the state.

I had no clue he'd double-cross me.

"It's just a patch of worthless dirt way out in the mountains. You really think it's some kind of treasure?" his mother, Eleanor, chimed in with her usual venom. "My son's right. You never learned how to be grateful. That's why your parents died young."

With a loud bang, the door flew open like it had been kicked, and Eleanor came storming into the room. She threw the still-crying baby into Aunt Clara's arms like he was a bag of laundry.

"He's been screaming nonstop. You want him? Fine. Here. Do your job. You're getting paid with my son's money, aren't you?"

Trailing behind her like a shadow was Paul's little sister, Janice, mumbling under her breath like some self-righteous parrot.

"Mom and Paul are right. You should really learn to appreciate what you've been given. Stop stressing Mom out all the time."

I looked at the three of them—shameless, soulless, and so full of their own self-importance—and felt my stomach tighten.

Perfect. The whole damn pack had arrived.

I shot Aunt Clara a subtle glance. She picked up on it right away and quietly stepped out of the room, taking the wailing baby with her.

Janice stepped forward with all the fake grace she could muster, her voice dripping with syrupy superiority.

"Amara, you're married now. That means you're gone for good, like water down the drain. There's no way to scoop it back up. How dare you even consider registering my nephew under your name? You married into our family, and you married far away. What if one day you decide to take off with the baby? My brother is then left with nothing. You need to try to understand where Mom is coming from."

I stared at her, not even bothering to hide my disgust.

She kept going, completely oblivious.

"Also, my brother didn't care that you were an orphan. He still married you, despite having no family left. You should be grateful for that. Now that you've given him a son, just be content and live quietly. That land of yours in the mountains isn't worth much anyway. Just let Paul submit it to the state and be done with it."

Oh, I could see the greed flicker in her eyes plain as day.

So I looked her right in the face and said coldly, "You keep saying a married woman is like water down the drain. So what does that make you? Some stray bitch sticking her nose in business that isn't hers?"

"Amara! That's completely uncalled for. I'm only trying to help," Janice huffed, eyes wide with fake shock. "If Mom weren't so concerned about your postpartum recovery, I wouldn't have even bothered to come visit."

I almost rolled my eyes.

Even under the hospital-grade disinfectant on her clothes, I could still catch that faint scent of fresh and metallic blood clinging to her. Aunt Clara had been right. Janice was downstairs in the OR earlier today, delivering babies.

So she had come up here with blood on her hands and venom on her tongue.

"You little bitch!" my mother-in-law exploded, voice shaking the walls. "You dare insult my precious daughter? Just because you popped out a boy, you think you're above everyone now? Don't think I won't tell Paul to divorce you!"

I froze.

Divorce?

Honestly, that sounded like a relief.

In my past life, I had begged and prayed for that day to come, but I knew better now. These people weren't going to let me go, not until they'd sucked every drop of use out of me and take my son with me. But no, that was never going to be an option.

"Mom, what are you even saying?" Paul cut in quickly, his voice tense. "Amara already agreed not to register the baby under her name. There's no need to talk about divorce. Just apologize, okay?"

"Why the hell should I apologize?" Eleanor shot back, her voice rising again. "She's just some orphan from the mountains—"

The sharp crack of palm on skin silenced her mid-sentence.

My mother-in-law spun around, stunned. Her hand flew to her cheek, eyes wide with disbelief.

"You hit me?" she gasped at Paul. "After everything I've done for this family? If I hadn't held her back all this time, you think—"

"Ahhh!" Eleanor shrieked again, turning to glare at Janice, who had just pinched her hard on the arm.

"You too?" she barked. "What, are both of you losing your minds? Is this some kind of rebellion now?"

Janice kept her fingers digging into her mother's arm, staring her down like a teacher scolding a child.

"Mom, enough. You're blowing everything out of proportion again. Didn't we agree we were going to apologize to Amara? Or did you forget that already?"

It was like watching someone flip a switch.

My mother-in-law blinked rapidly, looking between Paul and Janice, clearly rattled.

Then she turned to me, lips pressed tight, fumbling for something that sounded sincere. "Amara… Mom's got a temper. Sometimes I say things without thinking. Don't take it to heart, okay?"

She ground her teeth together, forcing the following words out like they were made of nails.

"Instead of getting in your way here, it's probably better if I go home for a while."

Her hands trembled as she pulled out a red envelope from her purse and shoved it into my hands.

"Amara, recovering from childbirth isn't easy. This is just a little something from me. When Paul's vacation ends, I'll come back."

I looked down at the envelope, then back up at her with a faint smile.

On the surface, I probably looked touched. But inside, my heart had already iced over.

'So you're in a hurry to get out of here? Perfect. Go. Run. The farther away you are, the easier it'll be for me to do what I need to do.'

Once the three of them finally left, one by one, like roaches scattering, Aunt Clara slipped back into the room, her arms wrapped around my baby like he was the most precious thing in the world.

And to me, he was.

"Amara, you were right. The baby was switched. Your mother-in-law and Janice bought plane tickets, and they're flying out tonight," Aunt Clara said.

The moment I gazed at the infant wrapped in the blanket, with those puffy, dark brown eyes staring up at me without a hint of warmth, a wave of disgust surged through my chest.