I sat silently, my gaze drifting to the corner of the room. My ten-year-old nephew was busy sweeping my expensive cosmetics off the vanity, smashing bottles onto the floor with a bratty grin.
In my past life, this was the moment I stepped in.
Back then, I had rushed forward to stop Vivian. I explained, using my medical background, that Grandmother Henson had been exposed to heavy metals during her life. I warned them that the dust from the ashes would trigger Ryan's asthma and that feeding a child "bone soup" was dangerous insanity.
For Ryan's sake, I had lectured them on the dangers of feudal superstition and urged them to raise him with independence. Later, I even used every connection I had to force that incompetent, lazy man into a high-paying job.
And how did they repay me?
They treated my kindness like garbage.
When they saw Daisy's success next door—attributed entirely to her "spirit dice"—and compared it to Ryan's mediocrity, their resentment festered. Ryan, at thirty, was still a low-level employee, unmarried and broke.
The accusations began.
"If it weren't for you stopping me back then, my son would be the rich one now!"