The Jump That Broke Me Chapter 1

My five-year-old daughter jumped to her death at school. While her teacher frantically called and texted, I calmly turned off my phone and watched a movie.

In my past life, I'd rushed there in panic—only to find her lifeless body. The teacher claimed my daughter confessed to enduring long-term beatings before jumping. Even my husband accused me of abuse.

Yet I'd cherished her, never raising a hand or voice. When the medical examiner revealed her body—covered in years of bruises—I became society's monster. My parents were driven to suicide after online harassment bankrupted them. I died in prison, beaten by inmates.

I never understood: how could my pampered child have those injuries?

Now reborn on the day of her death, I'll uncover the truth.

* * *

"Honey, come have breakfast. I learned to make this just for you."

Markus, ever the gentle and attentive husband, brought a tray of breakfast and placed it in front of me.

Looking at his familiar, soft smile, a shiver ran down my spine.

Markus had married into my family. Since our wedding day, he had been a stay-at-home dad, taking care of me and our daughter, Lily. For years, he had been meticulous and thoughtful, attending to our every need. My friends all said I had found the perfect man, a man as gentle as water. I had believed them.

If only, in my last life, he hadn't stood before a crowd, his eyes blazing with fury, and accused me of being a monster who abused her own child. I never would have known that this mild-mannered man had such a twisted side.

"Honey, what are you daydreaming about? Come on, eat up."

Markus waved a hand in front of my face.

Suppressing the storm of confusion and rage in my heart, I sat down at the table.

Across from me, my daughter was taking small sips of her milk.

My eyes instantly turned red.

Today was the day.

After she finished breakfast and went to school, she would jump from the building.

When I arrived, all I would see was her body. I would hold her cold form, crying until I nearly passed out. But her teacher would point at me, telling me to stop my fake tears.

I wouldn't understand.

She would declare, with righteous indignation, that my daughter had jumped because of my long-term domestic abuse. That my daughter had even confessed she would rather die than go home.

As I was arguing with the teacher, Markus would arrive.

I would be filled with hope, expecting him to clear my name.

But he would stand before the crowd, his eyes red, and roar at me.

"From the day I married into your family, you've done nothing but beat and curse me! You never treated me like a human being!"

"For Lily's sake, I endured it all."

"I told you, you can do whatever you want to me, but why did you have to do this to our daughter?"

"I begged you countless times! Why did you have to push her to her death?!"

His words were daggers, his voice thick with tears. He would list my supposed "atrocities" for all to hear, painting me as a sadistic monster who reveled in cruelty.

My desperate explanations would be drowned out by the jeers and curses of the crowd.

Then the medical examiner would arrive. He would reveal the dense network of scars covering my daughter's body. Old injuries and new, a testament to long-term abuse.

"Even a tiger won't eat its own cub! This woman is worse than an animal!"

"Someone like her doesn't deserve a husband or a child! She doesn't deserve to live!"

"Her poor daughter, stuck with such an inhuman monster!"

"Letting her live another second is a pollution to the earth!"

With the "irrefutable evidence" before them, the insults would rain down. Some people in the crowd would even throw trash and rocks at me, wishing they could kill me on the spot.

Amidst the storm of hatred, I would be handcuffed and taken away.

In an instant, hashtags like #EvilMother, #VenomousWoman, and #PoorFatherAndDaughter would dominate the internet. I would be subjected to the most vicious online abuse and curses imaginable.

My parents, too, would be doxxed. Their company would go bankrupt. They would be trapped in their home, unable to leave without being pelted with filth and screamed at. Eventually, they would die in their home, their bodies left to rot.

And I would be tortured to death by my fellow inmates.

Even as I died, I never understood. Why would my pampered daughter have a body covered in scars and jump to her death?

The pain of my past life was still vivid.

This time, I would uncover the truth.