Cursed Baby Bottle

In my previous life, it was around this time that Jess brought a gift for my son.

I was delighted back then, touched even, by the bottle she had chosen. I used it for everything—for my son's water and milk. But within a few days, I noticed something unusual.

My once lively, smiling baby had turned eerily quiet. There was a stillness about him that gnawed at my nerves. His lips had begun to take on a faint purple hue.

As a first-time mother, I panicked. I immediately brought it up with my husband, urging him to take the baby to the hospital for a check-up.

But he waved me off, his tone dismissive.

"Babe, you're overreacting again!" he said, irritation flickering in his eyes. "The doctor said Nicholas is perfectly healthy. You're just stressing yourself out for no reason."

Then he added, "Hospitals are full of germs, you know. What if he picks up something worse there?"

I hesitated. He made it sound reasonable, convincing even. Reluctantly, I pushed the thought aside.

But a month later, as I was feeding my son, his tiny face suddenly turned a deep purple. Before I could react, his eyes closed forever.

I froze in terror, clutching his limp body as we rushed to the hospital. I held him close, desperate to keep his warmth from slipping away, but I knew—knew in the marrow of my bones—that I was already too late.

At the hospital, the doctor's words struck like a hammer. "Your child's heart was half the size of a normal infant's. How could you not have known this as his parents? Because of your negligence, he's gone."

I stood there, shattered. The words felt like a storm ripping through the sky on a perfectly sunny day.

James took me home, and we didn't exchange a single word the entire night. I drowned in my grief, too consumed by the loss to notice his strange behavior.

The next day, Jess arrived with her son, David, practically glowing with joy.

"David's heart condition is completely cured," she said brightly. "We won't need to visit the hospital anymore."

Her words struck me like a knife. I exploded, my pain spilling into a heated argument. But before I could say much, James shoved me to the ground.

"Who do you think you are, speaking to Jess like that?" he spat, his face a mask of disgust. "You're nothing but bad luck! You killed our child, and now you want to play the victim? I want a divorce. Get out of my house!"

I refused, and in the chaos of our fight, I slapped him.

Before I could react further, Jess grabbed a chair and struck me, knocking me unconscious.

It was only after my death that I learned the full truth. They had always been a family—Jess, James, and his mother. Jess was never just his sister; she had been brought into the family as his betrothed, their "child bride," chosen by my mother-in-law long ago.

I, and later my son, had merely been sacrifices to their shared ambition, pawns in their grand plan.

The hatred that surged in me at that memory was relentless, uncontainable.

"Carrie? Carrie?"

Jess's voice snapped me back to the present. I stared at her, dazed, realizing she was pointing awkwardly at the bottle in my hand.

"Carrie, Nicholas's already finished the milk," she said with a small laugh. "I've been calling you for a while. What were you thinking about?"

I forced a smile, clutching the bottle tighter. "Oh, nothing," I replied.

Later that evening, after Jess left, my husband followed shortly after. "I'll walk Jess home," he said casually.

I nodded, knowing full well that "walking her home" was just an excuse. They were probably heading to the hospital to continue their sordid affair. But it didn't matter to me anymore.

In this world, there was only one person who mattered now—my son, safe in my arms.

And my mission was clear: I had to gather proof of James's infidelity. I would make sure he left our marriage with nothing but the clothes on his back.