Chapter 2

Right now, threatened by Eleanor, the delivering obstetrician was furious, but she had to swallow her anger and keep working.

This time, however, I fought back. I struggled inside, desperately refusing to be born first.

"We have a breech presentation!"

"It's a difficult labor!"

"To the husband, we highly recommend an emergency C-section. Please sign the consent form immediately."

"No way! C-section babies are stupid! You can't cut her open. She has to have a natural birth!"

That piercing, screeching voice belonged to my grandmother, Martha. She was the one who always enabled Eleanor's madness. The two of them always teamed up, leaving my father, Richard, completely speechless.

So, Eleanor chose needless suffering. Risking severe postpartum hemorrhaging, she stubbornly pushed both Clara and me out naturally.

Of course, she was too exhausted to frame the doctor for harassment this time.

In this life, neither of us was the "lucky baby." We started on the exact same foot.

But I was still five ounces heavier than Clara.

"Mom, go buy ten more digital scales. I don't believe this. They are identical twins. How can their weights be different?"

Eleanor frowned. After weighing Clara and me eight times on the scale, she dragged her hands through her hair in a fit of rage.

Martha was a bully to outsiders, but in front of Eleanor, she was as obedient as a lamb. She immediately went out to buy more scales.

But unfortunately, our weights fluctuated slightly on every single scale.

Eleanor had a complete meltdown. She pointed at me, her face twisted with annoyance.

"Take her away! She’s too aggressive. She must have stolen Clara’s nutrients while they were in my womb."

"Starve her for a few feedings. That will teach her to be quiet."

In my last life, my chronic stomach issues started right here. Having a second chance at life, I refused to let history repeat itself.

But crying in front of Eleanor would do nothing but annoy her more.

So, I waited. I kept my mouth shut until 4:00 PM—the exact time Richard usually came home from work. Then, I let out the most piercing, agonizing wail I could muster.

The sound was so heartbreaking that Richard didn't even change his shoes. He practically flew into the house to find me.

Just as my throat was about to blow out from screaming, Richard finally found me—stuffed inside the drum of the front-load washing machine.