I had a dream.
I dreamed that after my ex-husband took our seven-year-old son, An An, to his home, his mistress deliberately poisoned him.
The day after he was brought back, An An began bleeding all over. Nothing could stop it, and in the end, he died.
Despite everyone’s objections, I had an autopsy performed on An An, which confirmed that he’d been poisoned. But my ex-husband shielded his mistress.
I went everywhere, appealing and petitioning, but the evidence had already been destroyed, so I couldn’t send the wicked couple to prison.
On the day the mistress’s son turned ten, worn down by years of struggle and plagued by illness, I finally collapsed outside the courthouse.
After I died, I was fretting over why I couldn’t find An An in the underworld when I suddenly heard someone call, “Mom!”
I jolted awake from the nightmare.
Seven-year-old An An was looking at me with a bright smile, his face full of anticipation.
“Mom, I’m ready to go see Dad!”
Terrified, I grabbed him, breaking out in a cold sweat.
Why did I have this awful feeling that if An An left this time, he’d never come back?
