Chapter 1

In my previous life, I was married to Michael Goodwin for twenty-two years.

He claimed that helping students in need was a noble thing to do, and I bought into it.

My heart softened, so I invited his student, Susan Neal, to join us for dinner.

Later, she moved in with us, saying her dorm was too far from school, making it more convenient for her to attend classes.

I did her laundry, cooked for her, and even assisted her with her theses.

She spoke to me respectfully, with an innocent smile and bright, sincere eyes.

Then, the day I was hospitalized, Michael slipped a divorce agreement into my medical chart, leaving me with nothing.

He said, "I supported her through her PhD, and she's willing to marry me. I can't let her down.

"You never got much education, so you don't fit into my life anymore."

After that, I ended up in a 215-square-foot rental unit, barely getting by on my meager pension.

During the holidays, my children chose to gather with him, and no one thought about visiting me.

I passed away alone in that small apartment, unnoticed until the rent was overdue, and the landlord opened the door to find my body.

When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back on the afternoon Susan first stepped into my home.

She was wearing the coat I had bought for her and gave me a sweet smile. "Grace, I'm here."

I smiled back at her and then closed the door.

Michael stepped out of the study, his leather slippers thudding softly against the floor. He glanced at the closed door and then at me. "Why didn't you open the door?"

"The wind must've shut it," I replied, turning toward the kitchen. "I'll go turn down the heat on the soup."

He paused for a moment behind me before heading to open the door.

Standing in the kitchen, I could hear him through the slightly open door. "You're here. Was it cold outside? Come in and have a seat."

That gentle tone was one he'd never used with me in all our twenty-two years of marriage.

The soup in the pot simmered, steam rising and causing my eyes to sting a bit.

It wasn't sadness. I'd already died once; there was nothing left for me to mourn.

It was merely ironic.

Before I'd gotten the second chance at life, I'd spent my last years in a cramped apartment, barely surviving on a meager pension.

During the holidays, my children, David and Emma, always went to their father's place. No one ever visited me, and I died in that apartment with no family around.

Twenty-two years passed like that. All those meals I cooked, all that laundry I did, and all those theses I helped with... What did they amount to?

In the end, I received a divorce agreement that left me with nothing.

I turned the soup down to a simmer and stood by the stove, taking a deep breath.

This time around, I was done burning myself out for anyone else's sake.

Susan sat in the living room for almost two hours.

I brought out some coffee and set it in front of her. She looked up and smiled at me. Her smile held a touch of gratitude, a hint of closeness, and something I hadn't noticed before.

This time, I recognized it.

It was the confidence of someone who knew victory was already hers.

She and Michael were deeply engaged in discussing the department's latest research topics. She was completely absorbed, sometimes bowing her head to jot down notes, with the soft scratch of her pencil barely audible.

When Michael listened to her, his expression showed a focus I hadn't seen before, as if he were looking at something truly precious.

I sat next to them, sewing a button, not looking up, and my hands never stopped moving with the needle and thread.

In my previous life, while sitting here, I'd thought that Susan was a hardworking girl. Michael was lucky to have such a dedicated student, and it was also a blessing for our family.

How could I have been so oblivious back then?

When Susan was leaving, she paused at the door to put on her shoes and turned back to me. "Grace, your soup was amazing. Can I mooch a meal off you next time?"

"Of course," I replied.

She smiled, her eyes bright. She had that pretty, gentle look that made one want to like her.

I smiled back at her.

But once the door closed, I let my smile fade.

Michael walked her out to the hallway. I stood by the door, catching snippets of his low voice, which I couldn't quite make out. Then, I heard Susan's soft "Mm," followed by her footsteps going down the stairs.

I returned to the living room, cleared away the cups, and wiped down the coffee table with a cloth.

*****

The next morning, after Michael left for campus, I went to see a lawyer.

It wasn't for a divorce. Not yet.

I simply wanted to figure out where I stood.

The lawyer, Jason Chandler, was recommended by a friend of mine and had an office on the sixth floor of an old office building. The place was dim, but he was thorough and attentive.

I laid out everything I knew, including those monthly student aid payments that left the joint account of Michael and me.

I stumbled upon that by accident. By the time I found out in my previous life, the transfers had been happening for almost three years.

When I asked Michael, he said he was helping some disadvantaged students in his department, and that it was a good deed, so I let it go.

Jason frowned. "Can you get the transfer records?"

"I can check the online banking records," I said. "The same account is always receiving the money."

"That's helpful," he said, jotting down a few notes. "What assets do you have under your name right now?"

I thought for a second and then listed everything. Honestly, it felt kind of pathetic saying it.

For twenty-two years, I'd given up my job to stay home, raise the kids, and handle the housework. Sometimes, I taught older adults to read in the community, earning a small stipend.

Meanwhile, Michael climbed from lecturer to professor, increasing his title, income, and social status, all thanks to the invisible foundation I built at home.

And as for me? There wasn't a single thing that truly belonged to me.

Jason said, "Legally, you have the right to claim half of the marital assets. However, to recover those transfers, you'll need to prove he misappropriated the funds without your authorization, rather than that it was an agreement between both of you."

"I never agreed," I replied. "It's just that I never objected because I trusted him."

Jason looked up at me for a moment, nodded, and jotted something down in his notebook. I couldn't see what he wrote, but I noticed him circle that line.