When news came that my husband had died in battle, everyone waited to laugh at me, the devoted widow.
After all, because I loved him, I had once served his paralyzed mother like a dog for six whole years, without a name or status, and cared for her until her dying day.
But the day after the funeral, I remarried the senior army officer who had returned to the village to visit family, still dressed in mourning clothes.
No one knew I had been reborn.
In my previous life, my sister-in-law and her child were escorted away in grand style. My son and I were bullied in the village, and with nowhere else to turn, we went to the city to seek help from my husband's uncle.
There, I saw my husband, who had supposedly been dead for five years, holding my sister-in-law in his arms and playing with their child.
It turned out that the one who had died on the battlefield was the uncle. My husband had taken credit for his uncle's military honors and used them to bring my sister-in-law away.
Angry that I had suddenly shown up with my child, my husband sold us into the remote mountains, where my son and I were tortured to death.
In this life, I decisively told my son to call someone else Dad.
Five years later, at my former father-in-law's memorial hall, I came face-to-face with my ex-husband and sister-in-law, who had come to pay their respects.
