His Regret, Her Name, My freedom

My husband spent our wedding night with my sister. She was sick, he said.

When his job transferred him to New York, he took her, not me. His excuse? She'd never seen a big city.

He missed the birth of our son because her divorce was more important.

In the car crash, he shielded her with his body and left me to the impact.

As I lay dying, our own son begged me to set his father free. "You're nothing like her, Mom. Just let him go." My husband stood beside my bed, and his silence was his consent.

But I opened my eyes again. I was back at the registry, staring at the marriage application.

This time, I wrote my sister's name.

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1

Jasper Caldwell’s fingers drummed impatiently against the table.

"Just sign it and hand it over."

My gaze fell upon the marriage application. I traced the rough edge of the paper with my fingertips, my mind wandering.

In my last life, I’d treated this form like a sacred document.

I had solemnly signed my name, then excitedly tried to drag Jasper along to shop for wedding supplies.

My reward was a harsh scolding. He was in a rush to get back to Delia Watson, who had gotten her period.

This time, my reply was a detached, "I know."

I glanced up to see his anxious expression and the hand that kept checking his watch.

He wore a white shirt today, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, showing off his toned forearms.

I remembered how much Delia loved when he dressed like that, claiming it made him look so sharp and clean.

"If you have something pressing, you should go," I said. I pushed down the bitterness rising in my throat, forcing a calm tone. "I can fill this out and submit it on my own."

Relief washed over his features, and his voice softened. "Don't worry. Since we're married now, I’ll take care of you."

He added, "But stop being jealous of Delia. If word gets out, it will ruin her reputation."

I said nothing. In my previous life, I had explained myself countless times.

But in his eyes, I was simply a jealous, petty older sister, unable to tolerate her sweet, gentle younger sister.

Without another word, he turned and left in a hurry.

I drew a deep breath, willing my racing heart to calm, but scenes from my past life flickered through my mind, unstoppable.

On our wedding night, he never came home. He said he was taking care of Delia, who was sick.

Later, when his job transferred him to New York, he took only Delia, saying she had never seen a big city.

Even on the day our son was born, Jasper was absent. He was busy consoling Delia, who was in the middle of a divorce.

Right up to the end, our son, Arthur Caldwell, pleaded with me. "Mom, please divorce Dad. You're nothing like Aunt Delia. Dad has suffered with you for so many years. Just let him go."

Lying in my hospital bed, I looked at my frigid husband beside me. He remained silent, his silence a tacit agreement to our son's words.

I bit down hard on my lower lip, not releasing the pressure until I tasted blood. No! In this life, I will not repeat the same mistakes.

I picked up the pen. In the applicant's section, I slowly wrote the name: Delia Watson. Since Jasper loved her so dearly, I would grant his wish.

I slid the completed application to the clerk, accepted the marriage certificate, and walked out of King County City Hall.

I didn't feel a shred of sadness. Instead, an indescribable sense of relief flooded me.

In my past life, after our parents died in the line of duty, the Watson family adopted Delia and me.

Delia was a smooth talker who knew how to win people over. She had Jasper's parents wrapped around her little finger; they treated her better than their own daughter.

Jasper's mother, Molly, had even planned for Delia to marry Jasper from the start. But with a simple declaration—"I don't want to compete with my sister"—Delia had convinced Jasper to choose me instead.