Back in my room, I wanted to keep the pregnancy test report, and while searching, I found the forged infertility test report.
That was six years ago. I spent $6,000 to have a classmate’s classmate get me a fake test report.
Six years ago, Michael and I were a pair of star-crossed lovers, relying on each other for survival.
Our lives weren’t actually that hard. My parents ran a small shop; I was their only child, and Michael’s parents were successful businesspeople.
The tragedy struck when Michael was ten. A car accident took their lives, and his uncle quickly seized control of everything.
He even sold Michael to human traffickers in the mountains.
I was the neighbor of that buyer.
Not long after, the neighbor had his own child, and Michael became a burden, a useless burden.
He was always doing endless chores, his body covered in bruises.
I secretly gave him bread from the shop and laid out his blankets in the pigsty.
Until one day, the neighbor lost money gambling and whipped Michael until he rolled on the ground.
I rushed forward and bit the neighbor’s hand tightly, but he flung me away, sending me crashing into a stone in the yard, bleeding profusely.