A Mother's Cold Revenge

I was dying of colon cancer in a hospice, all my $150,000 savings for retirement and my son, Ethan, almost gone.

Ethan cried, telling me his girlfriend, Chloe, stole every penny for a luxury condo. I believed him completely.

My hatred for that "gold-digger" burned hotter than my cancer. In my final hours, I called the police, determined to ruin Chloe for letting me die disgraced.

I died filled with pure, unadulterated hate.

My last thought was of her painful demise. How could she betray a dying woman so cruelly? The injustice was unbearable.

Then I gasped, not in the hospice, but in my own living room, alive and whole. The doorbell chimed-the day I first met Chloe. And as she entered, I heard her innermost thoughts: "I hope she likes this locket; Ethan said she only respects expensive brands."

My rage short-circuited. Ethan had lied. My son was the monster. I was back, with a chilling chance to make him pay.

The last thing I remembered was the smell of antiseptic and cheap bleach.

I was dying in a low-funded hospice, my body eaten away by colon cancer. My son, Ethan, sat by my bed, his face a mask of sorrow. He told me he was sorry. He told me there was no money left for better treatment.

He said his girlfriend, Chloe, had taken it all.

"She cleaned out your savings, Mom," he had sobbed, his head in his hands. "All $150,000. She used it for a down payment on some luxury condo and won't give it back."

I believed him. Of course, I did. He was my son, the only thing I had left in this world. I raised him alone, a public school teacher in a small Ohio town, saving every penny from my pension and my 401(k) for him, for my retirement.

The hatred I felt for Chloe was a physical thing, a fire that burned hotter than the cancer. I imagined this girl, this materialistic monster, living in luxury while I wasted away in a room with peeling paint.

Ethan told me she was a gold digger, that she always complained about my small house and my frugal ways. It all made sense.

In my final hours, with what little strength I had left, I did one last thing. I called the police. I filed a report. I told them Chloe had stolen my life savings. I wanted to ruin her. If I was going to die in misery, she wouldn't get to live in peace.

The detective's voice on the phone was sympathetic but distant. He took down the details.

I hung up, exhausted.

Then I closed my eyes and let the darkness take me, my heart full of nothing but pure, unadulterated hate for a girl I had met only once.

A sharp, sudden gasp for air.

My eyes flew open. I wasn't in the hospice. I was in my own living room, the one with the worn floral sofa and the sun-faded curtains. The scent of my famous pot roast hung in the air, thick and comforting.

My body felt... whole. The gnawing pain in my gut was gone. I looked down at my hands. They were wrinkled, yes, but they were my hands, not the skeletal claws they had become.

The front doorbell rang.

The sound sent a jolt through me. I knew that ring. It was the moment it all started. The day I met Chloe.

Ethan walked in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He was younger, his face not yet hardened by the greed I would later come to know.

"That must be her," he said, a charming smile playing on his lips. "Be nice, Mom."

He opened the door. And there she was. Chloe.

She looked just as I remembered, a young nursing student with kind eyes and a nervous smile. She was holding a small, gift-wrapped box.

My old hatred flared up, hot and immediate. This was the girl who left me to die.

But then, something strange happened. As she stepped inside, a voice echoed in my head. It was quiet, anxious, and it wasn't my own.

Oh god, I hope she likes it. Ethan said his mom only respects expensive brands, but this vintage silver locket was all I could afford from the antique mall after saving for months. I hope she doesn't think it's cheap. Ethan said she'd be offended if I didn't bring a gift.

I stared at her, my mind reeling.

I could hear her thoughts.

The thought was so clear, so full of genuine worry, that it completely short-circuited my rage. It was like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.

In my last life, Ethan had told me a different story.

"She brought some cheap drugstore perfume, can you believe it?" he'd said, laughing with disgust. "And then she had the nerve to whisper to me that the house felt small."

Chloe held out the small box to me. "It's so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Miller. This is for you."

I took the box, my fingers trembling slightly. I opened it. Inside, nestled on a bed of cotton, was a beautiful, antique silver locket. It was delicate and obviously chosen with care. It was not cheap drugstore perfume.

I looked from the locket to Chloe's hopeful face, then to my son's smiling one.

For the first time, a tiny crack appeared in the foundation of my hatred.