My Hidden Identity Is a Prophet

This time, my grandmother took extra care of my mother during her pregnancy.

My usually timid mother sighed to me, "It's nice being pregnant with a boy. I've never received such treatment before."

Every day, Grandma cooked eggs, and every month, she had my three sisters bring home a slaughtered chicken in turn, calling it filial duty.

The whole family was eagerly awaiting the birth of this unborn brother.

Soon, the due date arrived.

My mother was in labor for two days, screaming in pain, and finally gave birth to a stillborn baby.

The midwife came out holding the baby, and Grandma and I rushed forward to see what happened.

The baby was indeed a boy, but his face was blue, his lips pale—he didn't look like a healthy baby at all.

The midwife held her hand under the baby's nose to check for breath. After a long while, she said solemnly, "Bella, don't be sad. The baby is gone."

Grandma refused to believe it. "No, I don't believe it! He just can't cry. How could he be dead?"

She reached out to pinch, twist, and slap the baby, leaving marks on his delicate skin that quickly faded.

But the baby remained silent, his eyelids unmoving.

My father, unable to bear it, stopped her frantic behavior.

"Prepare for the funeral."

Only then did Grandma realize her wish had once again been unfulfilled.

The Chad family still had no male heir.