Made Me Carry His Mistresss Child

I became the ‘Cool blood Mom’—the ultimate enabler my daughter always claimed she wanted—right after the car accident. She craved a sugary rush? I ordered her a Venti Caramel Macchiato every single day—full-sugar, extra whip, and enough ice to give her a brain freeze. She wanted to skip school? I called in sick for her, lying easily to the attendance office. Then, on her birthday, as she shoveled a slice of the custom Red Velvet cake I’d bought, I casually asked: “Willow, if Daddy and I decided to split up, who would you choose? Mom or Dad?” My daughter didn’t even look up from the frosting. “Dad, obviously.” She licked her fork clean, finally meeting my eyes. “I like Serena. If I’m with Dad, she can be my new mom.” A chilling silence dropped over the kitchen. Adam’s jaw tightened, and I saw his knee subtly bump Serena’s under the table—a hushed warning. Serena flinched, her soft features tightening. But I just smiled. It was a genuine, unrestrained smile. I reached out and gently wiped a smear of cream from the corner of Willow’s mouth. “Then I hope your wish comes true, sweetheart.” No one knew I had been given a second chance. I had woken up in the hospital, the metallic tang of dried blood in my mouth, the trauma of the past life burned away by the fresh horror of the present. In that first life, I had fought tooth and nail to keep Willow. And for my devotion, she was murdered by her own father. This time, I was leaving nothing behind. Especially not a serpent’s tooth like her.

1 “Clara, I feel like you’ve changed.” The sudden, cold observation sliced through the quiet hum of the dishwasher. I was standing at the stainless steel sink, rinsing the last of the expensive porcelain. I didn’t turn around. “Oh? Like what, Adam?” I replied, my voice flat. “Like… if Willow had said she wanted a new mother a month ago, you would have blown up.” His voice was low, careful—the way men speak when they’re fishing for a fight, not an answer. When I kept my back to him, he plunged ahead. “And you’ve become too lax with her. The doctors were very clear she needs to monitor her sugar intake. You’re giving her those crazy, high-sugar coffee drinks every day. That cake was half-a-pound of sugar.” He paused, his tone hardening into accusation. “Her teacher called me. She hasn’t turned in homework all week. You aren’t even checking on her assignments…” I picked up the final glass bowl. The brittle clink as I set it on the rack cut him off. “Isn’t this what she wanted?” I asked, shrugging, and tilted my head toward the living room. My ‘best friend,’ Serena Wells, was carefully peeling a ripe mango for Willow—a fruit I’d explicitly banned from our house due to the sugar content. Willow was curled into her side, giggling and petting Serena’s arm. They looked like the perfect, effortless mother-daughter pair. “You two always complained I was too strict,” I said, drying my hands with a crisp linen towel. “That I wasn’t as gentle or understanding as Serena. So, naturally, I’m taking notes.” Adam’s expression froze. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, a thousand unspoken arguments trapped behind his teeth. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with manufactured outrage. “Clara, Serena is your friend. You brought her into our lives. Can you stop with the dramatics? Stop being so insecure.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “The girl doesn’t connect with you. Instead of poisoning her body, maybe look at why your own daughter prefers the company of others. It’s your fault, not Serena’s.” His words were razor wire twisting in my chest, a familiar pain. Only the people closest to you know exactly where to strike for the deepest wound. But my heart was already a mass of scar tissue. It couldn’t ache anymore. In the past life, this was Adam’s specialty—Gaslighting 101. He told me the distance between Willow and me was because of my rigidity, my inability to be soft, while Serena was the epitome of warmth. So I kept calling her. Every cold war, every family vacation, Serena was there, the “buffer.” I even allowed Willow to call her ‘Mom’ on occasion and use my first name instead of ‘Mother.’ I bit down on the memory. When Willow was sitting for her college entrance exams, stressed and frantic, I was sitting outside in the sweltering heat, waiting for her. Adam, meanwhile, was sweating through the sheets with my best friend. When I found out, I swallowed the bile and the blood. I didn’t say a word, terrified that the scandal would derail Willow’s future. When I finally demanded the divorce, I walked away with nothing but the custody papers for my daughter. I built an entire life from scratch—a successful clothing design studio, long days, zero sleep—all to send Willow to an elite college. And then she was dead. Adam had plunged a knife into her neck. It was only then, as I collapsed over her body, that I learned the rest of the awful truth. Even after the divorce, Willow had secretly been running money and favors to Adam and Serena. When my business flourished, and theirs crashed, Adam’s jealousy turned lethal. I was weeping, howling over the body of my child, and he was laughing hysterically. “I wanted you to feel what it’s like to lose everything,” he cackled. “You think Willow didn’t know I was cheating? She covered for us! She was the one who kept making up excuses to bring Serena over. Give her a few more cakes, let her skip a few classes, and the little brat treated Serena like her real mother. Just as stupid as you are.” My vision grayed. A sharp, unbearable pain ripped through my chest. A silent heart attack. I fell into the darkness, but the truth was finally, blindingly clear. The child I sacrificed everything for was an ungrateful leech. And the love she craved was just cheap, effortless indulgence. A polite knock on the door pulled me back to the present. Willow stood there, holding Serena’s hand, a rehearsed pout on her face. “Mom, I want Aunt Serena to go to the Parent-Teacher Conference tomorrow.” Her eyes, Adam’s eyes, were narrowed in practiced manipulation. “You’re too scary. My friends are afraid of you when you come to school. They won’t come over anymore.” Adam frowned slightly, his face a mask of ‘good father’ disappointment. “Willow, your mother’s discipline is for your own good.” But he turned to me, his gaze testing the waters. “But honey, she has a point. Willow’s social life is important.” I cut him off. “You two go. I have a meeting anyway. I wasn’t planning on attending.” They both froze, caught off guard by my immediate, total surrender. Serena immediately draped an arm over my shoulder, a saccharine smile on her face. “Don’t be mad, Clara. You’re Willow’s only mother. I’m just… running errands for you.” But later that week, a video popped up in the school administrator’s private feed—a quick post from the PTC. In the video, Willow was beaming, holding hands with Adam on her left and Serena on her right, calling them “the best parents ever.” The post vanished almost instantly. I, however, had already captured it on a screen-recorder, which I then sent to my lawyer, Ms. Sterling. Click. Send. “Ms. Sterling,” I wrote. “Does this qualify as evidence of their ongoing marital misconduct?”

2 My biggest regret from the previous life was walking away with only an ungrateful daughter and nothing else. This time, Adam Thorne was going to be the one stripped bare. The lawyer, a sharp-featured woman named Michelle, reviewed the evidence I’d meticulously gathered. A confident smile crossed her face. “Ms. Sterling, your files are remarkably organized. I’m ninety percent certain we can secure the majority of the marital assets for you.” She paused, flipping a page. “I do see, however, that your daughter has Type 1 Diabetes. The medical costs alone are astronomical. Are you absolutely certain you want to forfeit her custody?” I ran a finger over the rim of my coffee cup. The bitter taste of the brew was nothing compared to the acrid memory of the life I’d just escaped. Willow has an aggressive, congenital genetic disorder. Her pancreas was essentially dead by age six, and she’d been hospitalized three times for diabetic ketoacidosis. The doctors warned me: manage her blood sugar, or the complications would destroy her—blindness, amputation, kidney failure. Any of them could kill her. So I became the iron fist. I forced her into a low-carb, low-sugar diet. I demanded two thirty-minute sessions of exercise daily. I bought her the most advanced Continuous Glucose Monitor (CGM) and insulin pump, tracking every reading. Willow was too young to understand the terror of the disease. Every time she cried, begging for ice cream or refusing to run, my heart bled. But I would steel myself, thinking of the grisly photos of gangrene and organ failure, and I made her obey. The consequence: the child I had nearly killed myself to protect grew up to despise me. I recalled her eighteenth birthday. She’d screamed at me over a small slice of cake. “Clara, your need to control me is suffocating! I’m not your daughter, I’m your dog!” Even as her life ebbed out, stabbed by Adam, she instinctively called out for Serena, dying in the other woman’s arms while glaring at me with raw, venomous hatred. The thought of that glare made me involuntarily shiver. She died hating me. She never saw the three jobs I worked after the first divorce to pay for her care. She didn’t see me setting an alarm every two hours at night to check her blood sugar, sacrificing my own rest, watching my hair turn prematurely gray. Michelle watched me with concern. “Ms. Sterling, if you secure the bulk of the assets, the court, in the interest of the child’s well-being, is highly likely to award you the custody.” I shook my head. “That won’t happen.” I was not going to raise Willow again. She was the mosquito, the viper, the leech who had sucked me dry and then gifted my blood to my enemies. I pushed a separate manila envelope across the desk. Michelle glanced at the contents and her pupils dilated instantly. Before she could speak, my phone blared a familiar, piercing alarm. My heart—the muscle I thought was dead—still skipped a beat. The alarm, the high-pitched warning for dangerously high blood sugar, was the signature ringtone for Willow’s CGM. As I drove toward the GPS coordinates, she called. The thirteen-year-old’s voice was full of desperate, theatrical sobs. “Mom, my sugar is spiking, I don’t know why! I’m so dizzy!” I slammed my fist on the steering wheel. “Where is your father? Where is Serena? Weren’t they at the conference today?” Willow’s sobbing stopped for a beat. “Mom, you’re my only mom. I don’t know where they are.” I found the location—a derelict community college building five minutes from her school. By the time I realized the GPS had led me to an abandoned warehouse district, it was too late. A group of hulking men surrounded me. No preamble. No talk. Just the sickening sound of belt buckles being undone. The man in front raised a cheap camcorder and grinned. As he grabbed my hair, I saw her. Willow was standing in the shadows, watching.