Chapter 1

In my past life, my name was Alice. I donated 10 million dollars and supported 101 children.

But when I died of stomach cancer at 37, not a single one of those 101 children came to visit me.

In this life, the first thing I did when I woke up was throw that sponsorship list into the trash.

With the money I had prepared to donate, I bought ten houses in one go before property prices went up.

Soon, I saw familiar faces on the screen.

Those boys and girls I had sponsored were wiping away tears during media interviews:

"Miss Alice promised she would support me through college, but now she's disappeared. I heard she bought 10 houses."

"Now, we can only drop out and find work."

"I don't hate her, I just feel hurt inside..."

"We just want to ask one question: Miss Alice, we've always thought of you as our mother. Are you really this heartless?"

I turned off the TV with an expressionless face.

The moment I opened my phone, countless messages came flooding in.

First text: "Ms. Alice, I'm a reporter from City Hotline. Why did you suddenly stop supporting those 101 underprivileged students? Would you be available for an interview?"

Second text: "It's Leah! Why aren't you answering your phone? You said you'd support me through college!"

Third text: "Ms. Alice, as a well-known philanthropist, you suddenly acquired ten properties but let these children drop out to work. Can you live with your conscience?"

Fourth, fifth, sixth...

My phone kept buzzing non-stop like it was exploding.

At the same time, chaotic footsteps sounded outside my door.

From the noise, there had to be at least dozens of people gathered at my doorstep.

Through the door, those voices couldn't wait to drill their way in—

"Ms. Alice! Come out and say something!"

"Why did you stop the support?"

"The children are all kneeling at the TV station entrance. Do you know that?"

I closed my eyes.

In my past life, I was a selfless, altruistic good person.

My husband Andrew and I owned a building materials store. We worked from dawn to dusk, carefully budgeting every expense.

The money we earned—very little went to our own household, most of it was donated.

Over ten years, we donated more than 10 million dollars and supported 101 children in our region.

Many of them we had sponsored since elementary school.

I promised them they could study without worry, that I would support them through college.

They wrote letters saying they would definitely repay us properly in the future.

We kept every single letter, taking them out to read when we couldn't sleep at night. Every time we read them, we'd be moved to tears.

Andrew and I had no children. We didn't expect the kids to repay us—we just hoped they wouldn't let poverty limit their futures.

Later, Andrew died.

During a delivery, his truck overturned. He left behind one sentence—"make sure to take good care of the children"—and was gone.

I cried my heart out, and before I could recover, I was diagnosed with late-stage stomach cancer.

During that year-plus in the hospital, I lay in my bed waiting for those children to come visit me.

Not a single one came.

I thought they were busy, that their studies were demanding, that travel expenses were high. I didn't blame them.

Later, when my medical funds ran out, I had no choice but to stop the support payments.

That's when the phone started ringing.

"Alice, why hasn't this month's living allowance arrived yet?"

"Alice, you said you'd support me through college. I'm only a freshman in high school and you're stopping? Aren't you screwing me over?"

"Ms. Alice, I'm John's parent. You made a promise back then. Now you just stop without warning? What about our child?"

The last call came from a girl named Martha.

When I was initially selecting children to sponsor, she had knelt before me, tears streaming down her face, calling me "Mom."

On the phone, she said: "Alice, how long will your treatment take? When you're better, hurry up and get back to work. So many of us kids are waiting for you."

I hung up and burned all the letters I'd kept under my pillow.

Later, a reporter exposed my situation and went to interview those children.

Reporter: "Alice is very sick. Won't you go see her?"

One child said: "She promised to support me through college. Now she's lying in a hospital with no money left. What could I do if I went?"

Another child said: "She's so rich, it's just treating an illness. Besides, our tuition is nothing, right?"

Martha smiled innocently at the camera:

"Everyone does things with ulterior motives. What she's after—I won't say it, but you can probably guess, right?"

I turned off the TV.

With my remaining money insufficient for treatment, I was discharged and went home to lie in the bed Andrew had slept in, enduring one day after another.

The night I died was New Year's Eve. Outside my window, everything was lively and festive.

I stared at the ceiling and said: "If I could do it all over again—"

"I would love myself first."

God blessed me. I was truly reborn.