The Best Vinegar

My name is Wendy Scott. I died the day before my 30th birthday in my last life. Cause of death? Acute gastroenteritis complicated by sepsis. The real culprit was the "best vinegar" my husband Mike Carter brewed with his own hands. The ingredients in that vinegar? Just hearing about them would make you puke up last night's dinner—he used his own foot-washing water as the fermentation starter and let it brew in the bathroom for a full forty-nine days. In my past life, I warned him. I told him that stuff was disgusting and dangerous. But he wouldn't listen. He forced me to drink a cup every day and said he planned to bottle it for sale to the retired officials during national day, gloriously dubbing it 'Master's Own Brew.' I didn't want anyone to get hurt, so I secretly dumped the vinegar he prepared and even refunded the money. When he found out, he didn't show an ounce of guilt. Instead, he said I was just jealous of his 'natural talent for brewing.' That night, he tied me to a chair and force-fed me a whole bottle of his 'best vinegar' through a funnel. I remember the taste—sour and rotten, wrapped in the stench of sweaty feet, burning my throat like it was on fire. Afterward, I vomited and had diarrhea nonstop until I was dehydrated, feverish, and barely conscious. By the time I reached the hospital, I had sepsis. The doctor said it was caused by a severe bacterial infection. When I died, my eyes were wide open, my mind swimming with nothing but bitterness. The next time I opened my eyes, I was lying in my bedroom bed, my phone screen glowing with messages from the family group chat. Mike just sent a voice message, full of swagger, "Hey everyone, I'm going into seclusion to brew vinegar!" I touched my throat—no burning, no sick aftertaste. I was reincarnated. Back to the very day Mike announced he'd start brewing vinegar. Last time, I tore into him in the group chat, called him ridiculous, called him disgusting. What did I get? More of his wild stubbornness, and Mike's mom blowing up at me for not supporting my husband. This time, I tapped on the screen, first hitting an exclamation mark, then typing: "You're amazing!" The moment I sent it, I heard Mike laughing from the living room. He probably didn't expect me to be this supportive. Mike's mother quickly chimed into the group chat: "My son really has talent!" and even added a thumbs-up emoji. I put down my phone, leaned against the headboard, a cold smile curling on my lips. The suffering you forced on me last life? In this one, I'll make you taste it twice over. Forty-nine days flew by in no time. On the day Mike came out, he specially made a jellyfish head salad. Carrying the plate into the living room, pride was written all over his face: "Wendy, Mom, come try this! My vinegar mix is definitely something else!" Mike's mother leaned over to smell it, frowning, "Why does it sting the nose a bit?" Mike Carter immediately snapped back, "That's exactly the smell! Don't you get it?" I walked over, grabbed the biggest piece of Jellyfish Head with my chopsticks, and held it up to Mike's mouth, smiling sincerely. "Honey, you try it first. This is your hard work; you have to be the first to judge it." A flicker of hesitation crossed Mike's face—he probably smelled something was off too. I kept holding out the chopsticks, eyes 'expectantly' fixed on him. "Honey, this is the cornerstone of your future career. We're all waiting to hear your review." Mike Carter's vanity was definitely piqued; he laughed, opened his mouth, and said, "Alright! I'll go first!" Then he swallowed that piece of Jellyfish Head in one bite.