When the firefighters carried three unconscious people out, I screamed with all my might, pointing at the fire, "Calvin!"
But I couldn't stand up anymore.
My neighbor noticed my distress, saw the blood on my pajama pants, and panicked, calling for help, "She's bleeding."
The bright red blood in the darkness was like a gorgeous flower of life.
As I lay on the stretcher, I couldn't hold back the pain and fainted.
My throat felt dry and painful when I woke up.
My hand instinctively went to my abdomen, which was now flat and empty. My child was gone.
My mom handed me a glass of water, her eyes red and tears brimming.
I drank it in one gulp and asked her, "Mom, where's Calvin?"
My mother's face was filled with anger, tears welled up in her eyes, "Wendy..."
She handed me the miscarriage report, saying, "You were bleeding too much when you came into the hospital. The baby is gone."
Her expression was a mixture of grief and fury.
I took the report and smiled bitterly, tears falling involuntarily.
I felt a deep connection to the child I had carried for five months. Before I died in my previous life, I could feel his struggle for life in my belly.
I was burned to death, so how could he survive?
Now, I had survived, but he died by his father's push.
It was unfortunate for him to have such a father.
Calvin had already made his choice between my baby and Victor.
My child, your father didn't deserve us.
My mother tried to comfort me, "Wendy, don't be sad. You and Calvin are young. You can have another child. Your health is the most important!"
My mother didn't know the truth and just hugged me and cried.
I asked, "Mom, where's Calvin? Is he..."
Did he die?
My mother hesitated before speaking, "Don't be mad."
Mad?
He had survived.
My mother continued, "Calvin is fine, he's just mildly burned. He rescued a mother and child."
It really made me angry that they didn't die.
It was as if fate was leaving them for me to deal with.
But my mother didn't know about it.
She held her phone tightly and didn't dare to look at me.
"Mom, are you hiding something from me?" I asked.
She shook her head frantically.
Just then, a video from the next bed patient's cell phone started playing.
My mother looked up and shouted, "Your phone is too loud. You're disturbing my daughter!"
The patient deliberately turned up the volume and sneered, "You deserved to have a miscarriage. It's your retribution."