In my previous life, I caught my wife conspiring with her lover on our wedding anniversary. That very night, I died in an “accident.”
Reborn on the night I proposed, she coyly handed me a box of imported condoms. “Honey, we need to focus on our careers right now.”
I smiled and took them, then cut open every single one that night. The next day, I quietly got a vasectomy.
Three years later, she held a son who looked just like her lover and begged me to change my will. “He's your only flesh and blood!”
I gently stroked the child's face and nodded. “All right.”
Then I turned away and called the bank. Time to close the net.
After all, how could a man who'd had a vasectomy five years ago have a “biological son”?
