Chapter 3

Gertrude's face turned beet red, choked on her own outrage.

Mark immediately stepped between us to smooth things over.

"Alright, alright, that's enough. You're back, that's what matters. Claire, Mom hasn't eaten a bite all day, and her stomach is killing her. Just go into the kitchen, whip up a quick bowl of noodles, apologize to her, and we can put this whole day behind us."

"She didn't eat all day, and somehow that's my fault?"

"If you didn't cook, what was she supposed to eat?"

"She has two hands and two feet, doesn't she? Can't she open the fridge herself?"

Mark's expression darkened into a cold scowl. "Claire, that is out of line. Mom is an elder—"

"Being older gives her the right to boss me around? It gives her the right to treat me like a live-in maid?"

"If someone doesn't wait on her hand and foot, she starves? How on earth did she survive eating cafeteria food for thirty years at school without dropping dead?"

Gertrude's face shifted rapidly from red to an ashen white. Her lips trembled violently as she pointed a shaking finger at me.

"Mark! Do you hear her?! Your wife just cursed me to drop dead! She wants me dead!"

Mark lost his temper entirely. He grabbed my forearm, his grip tightening until my bones throbbed with pain.

"Claire, you have crossed the line. Apologize to Mom. Right now."

Suddenly, Gertrude clutched her chest and collapsed backward onto the sofa.

Mark panicked, scrambling to hold her up. Her face was chalky, her chest heaving as she gasped for air, her words coming out in broken wheezes:

"Mark... I can't breathe... Your mother isn't going to make it..."

Mark's eyes turned bloodshot with panic. Supporting her with one arm, he turned to scream at me, "Claire! Call 911! Right now!"

I stood rooted in place, completely unmoved.

She had pulled this stunt so many times in my past life.

Whenever Mark and I had an argument, she would put on a near-death melodrama.

Once, Mark actually spoke up to defend me. She instantly collapsed to the floor, rolling her eyes back, scaring Mark so badly that he fell to his knees and begged for her forgiveness before she miraculously recovered.

Later, I accidentally caught her in her bedroom, munching on snacks and watching soap operas, giggling without a care in the world.

"No need to call 911," I said calmly, walking over to the coffee table and picking up my oil paints. "Mom gets like this all the time. Just give her a minute to catch her breath, and she'll be fine."

Gertrude's theatric groans paused for a fraction of a second before returning even louder.

"Mark... my chest hurts... it hurts so badly..."

Veins bulged on Mark's neck as he roared at me, "Claire, are you completely heartless?! My mother is dying right in front of you, and you're standing there making sarcastic remarks?!"

I leisurely put my paints back into the bag, then looked him straight in the eyes.

"Mark, your mother's latest medical checkup showed she's healthier than you are. She had her heart checked just last month, and the cardiologist told her her pulse was stronger than a twenty-year-old's."

Mark froze. "How could you possibly know that?"

Of course I knew. In my past life, Gertrude loved sending Mark to pick up her medical reports to prove how 'sick' she was.

Mark couldn't make heads or tails of the medical jargon, so she would point to any random arrow and claim her cholesterol or blood sugar was a sign of a terminal decline.

Later on, I quietly took copies of those same reports to a friend who was a doctor, and he told me point-blank that she was in prime health.

"If you don't believe me, dial 911 right now," I said, tapping my phone. "Let the paramedics run an EKG on the spot and see if there's anything wrong with her heart. Just a heads up, though: an ambulance ride and non-emergency call aren't fully covered by basic insurance. When they confirm she's totally fine, that bill is coming out of your pocket."

The living room fell dead silent for five whole seconds.

Gertrude slowly blinked her eyes open, weakly waving her hand.

"Mark... I'm feeling a little better. No need to call the ambulance... Let's not waste that money."

Mark stood there, utterly dumbfounded.

Looking at his bewildered face, I didn't feel a drop of satisfaction.

In my previous life, I had spent two years hoping he would finally see through his mother's manipulations, but he never had.

"Oh, and by the way, Gertrude," I added, meeting her gaze, "weren't you complaining about how much money I spend? Tomorrow, I'm inviting my artist friends over to paint. I'll sell more canvases to help cover the household expenses."

Gertrude's eyes widened in fury. "You wouldn't dare!"

I didn't bother answering. I grabbed my shopping bags and walked straight into the bedroom.

As the door clicked shut behind me, Gertrude's shrill voice pierced right through the wood:

"Mark! Just look at the monster you brought into this family!"