He slumped onto the sofa, at a loss for words.
Yes—this was the outcome they had begged for with their own hands.
Who else could they blame?
A few days after the birthday party, Ethan showed unusual symptoms—
first a low fever, then nighttime cries about severe leg pain.
In my previous life, I was too busy with work and overlooked them; by the time I noticed, it was too late.
That became Daniel’s family’s biggest excuse—my own son’s, even—to drive me to my death.
This time, I would give them no such chance.
I rushed Ethan to the most expensive private hospital in the city.
When the definitive report came out, I broke down, sobbing as if my heart were tearing apart.
Daniel and my in-laws hurried to the hospital.
At the sight of the diagnosis, my mother-in-law lunged for my collar and screamed,
“This is all your fault! You kept buying imported snacks and foreign formula for him—you ruined his health! You curse of a woman!”
I let her tug at me, shaking with tears, and pulled out what I had prepared long ago—
a thick stack of shopping receipts and Ethan’s latest physical exam records.
“Mom, you’re the one who told me to buy these for him.”
I played an audio clip. Her shrill voice echoed in the corridor:
“Everything for Ethan must be imported! Foreign goods are safer—no contamination!”
Stares from all around pricked at her like needles.
I continued evenly,
“And I took him for checkups every month—nothing abnormal before this. The doctor said it’s a genetic mutation, inherited paternally.”
“Didn’t Richard’s cousin have the same disease?”
Her face flushed beet red. She let go of me, fuming in silence.
Daniel, eyes bloodshot and voice hoarse, grabbed the doctor’s sleeve.
“Doctor, the treatment plan—what’s the best option?”
Choking back sobs, I delivered the decisive blow.
“The doctor recommends targeted therapy drugs. The cure rate could reach eighty percent. But the first phase alone will cost five hundred thousand.”
