Divorce Day Reset: My Wife Back at Seventeen

The 17-year-old version of Liliana knew I was allergic to alcohol. That was why, even at our wedding reception, she'd downed every toast for me without complaint.

But the 27-year-old woman she was now had someone else in her heart. She'd long since forgotten all of that.

Liliana now had two chances left.

Because of the alcohol, red blotches quickly broke out all over my face, and my head started spinning. That was when Liliana finally remembered my allergy.

She panicked, and guilt flooded her eyes. "Babe, I'll take you to the hospital."

Her concern used to make me feel warm all over. Now, it only made something sour and nauseating rise from the pit of my stomach.

I shook off her hand, my tone so flat that it was almost cold. "Don't bother. I'll go home, take some meds, and sleep it off. You guys have fun."

"No way. You're my husband. How can I just let you go home alone?" Her tone turned urgent.

She shot to her feet, grabbed my coat, and draped it over my shoulders. "Come on. We're going to the hospital. Otherwise, I won't be able to relax."

With that, she ignored the puzzled stares from the others in the private room. She didn't even spare a glance at Maurice, who sat in a corner with a dark look on his face.

Liliana gripped my arm tightly and half-supported, half-dragged me out of the room. When we got to the hospital, she rushed around nonstop, from having me registered to getting a doctor and picking up my meds.

Her steps were hurried, and she kept muttering, "Babe, hang in there. It's almost over."

It wasn't until she heard the doctor say it wasn't serious that the anxiety finally started to fade from her face.

She sat by the hospital bed, holding my hand, her gaze sincere. "Babe, this is all my fault. I would never have forgiven myself in this lifetime if anything happened to you because of that drink."

I looked at her, my feelings a tangled mess. I'd never once doubted that Liliana's love for me was true. The way she treated me and worried about me stemmed from her love.

The only issue was that her love was too cheap. All someone had to do was crook their finger to have it.

I looked away from her. The 17-year-old version of Liliana was beside me, her eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears. Her lips moved as if she wanted to say something, but in the end, nothing came out.

All of a sudden, I felt exhausted. The physical discomfort and the weight in my chest made me want to do nothing but sleep.

I said to Liliana, "I'm going to rest."

She carefully tucked the blanket around me and wiped the cold sweat from my forehead. She looked at me tenderly, saying, "Go to sleep. I'll be right here with you."

I nodded and stopped responding. Just as I was drifting off, her phone rang. I could feel her gaze, which had been resting on me, suddenly falter. Then, after some hesitation, she picked up her phone and tiptoed out of the room to answer the call.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Liliana didn't come back, but the 17-year-old version of her did. She kept her head down, not daring to look at me.

"Was it Maurice who called her away?" I asked.

She didn't answer. She just bit her lip, unconsciously balling her hands into fists.

I let out a bitter laugh. "Where did she go?"

She was silent for a long time before finally forcing out a few words. "The parking lot."

I pulled out the IV needle and got out of bed. She rushed to stand in my way, her voice tight with panic. "Si, maybe she just had something else to take care of. Don't go. Please, don't go…"

By the end, she was practically begging.

But when I looked at her, my reddened eyes held a stubborn edge. She met my gaze and, in the end, slowly stepped aside.