Can You Recommend Books About Getting Back His Dead Child Mysteriously?

I died the day my husband forced the doctors to take our baby from my womb. I thought I’d never love again after losing my ex-boyfriend to a heart attack. But fate gave me a second chance. I married the man I adored, a billionaire named Maxwell. Just when I was about to share the joyful news of my pregnancy, I caught him getting cozy with my best friend, Morgana. Worse, he believed her lies: I was a drug addict. The truth? I was battling a severe mental illness triggered by my ex’s death. I needed medication to cope, but Maxwell never cared to understand. He refused to believe a word I said. They locked me away in a private rehab clinic. But that place wasn’t for healing, it was a trap. Morgana used it to cut me off from Maxwell and torment me without consequence. And just when I thought things couldn’t get worse… Maxwell signed off on a surgery to take my baby. I lay on that cold operating table, tears streaming down my face, and died in the fire that followed—broken, betrayed, and alone. But I never expected to wake up again. This time, I have a new life. A new family. And even one of my children survived. Maxwell, Morgana—this time, I’m coming back. And you’re both going to pay.

I married a man who loved my step-sister. Our marriage was a contract—cold, clinical, temporary. No love. No expectations. And above all, no pregnancy. I told myself I could endure it. That loving him quietly, faithfully, invisibly, would one day be enough. I was wrong. For four years, I lived as a ghost in my own marriage—watching the man I loved choose her, again and again. I sacrificed my pride, my dreams, and my voice, waiting for him to see me. Then I discovered I was pregnant. I had broken the contract. But more than that, I had broken myself. So I left. Years later, I am no longer the woman who begged for scraps of affection. I am powerful, independent, whole. I rebuilt my life, reclaimed my stolen legacy, and became the woman I was always meant to be. Now, the man who once overlooked me stands at my door, desperate for answers—about the son he never knew existed, about the woman he destroyed, about the love he threw away. But some love is realized too late. When the woman you ignored becomes the one you can’t have, and the child you never wanted becomes your only chance at redemption—can a heart that never chose you suddenly deserve a second chance?

Ten years after my wealthy family took me back, I died in the rental house my billionaire parents had dumped me in. My son was three. Just to mess with me, the kidnapper gave me three chances to call for help. If even one person was willing to come see me, he'd spare my child. The first call was to my father, the man who'd spent fifteen years searching for me. He was busy directing the staff as they set up my adoptive sister's birthday party. When he picked up, he barked, "Estelle Emerson, seriously? Can you go one week without causing a scene? It's your sister's birthday. I'm busy. Don't kill the vibe." The second call was to my mother, the woman who brought me home and changed my name from Dixie to Estelle. But Vera snatched the phone and laughed so hard she could barely get the words out. "Estelle, seriously? If you're gonna make something up, at least make it believable. You look so broke you probably don't even have fifty bucks. What kidnapper would pick you?" The third time, I called Luca's father, my legal husband. He said he was in a meeting and didn't have time to play games with me. He also said that if I behaved myself, he'd agree to take me home for dinner next week. After the final call ended, I looked at the grinning kidnapper in despair and sent the last two messages of my life. A photo of myself covered in blood. And a short message, every word sincere. [I'm really going to die. In my next life, don't bring me home.]

My childhood friend suffered complications during labor and entrusted her child to me before she died. “Shea Wilde, I trust you the most. I’m counting on you to raise this child!” After she passed away, I endured every hardship while raising the child. Eighteen years of hardships and sacrifices later, I raised my foster son. He became the valedictorian and the top scorer in the college entrance exams. But on the day of the celebration banquet, my childhood friend returned with my childhood sweetheart. “Shea, I never imagined you’d raise my son so well! “Congratulations! I hereby announce you as the best childhood friend ever!” Her childhood sweetheart wrapped an arm around her shoulder while looking down on me. “Shea, Lilian Reyes is the daughter of the richest man in town. We’re taking our child back to claim our rightful inheritance. Here’s 30,000 dollars as compensation for you!” My adopted son was equally arrogant. His face twisted with pride. “I always knew a prodigy like me could never have a mother like you!” The rage killed me instantly. When time turned back, I sent the child straight to the orphanage.

In my previous life, my sister thought that since my husband and I had high-paying jobs, she could swap her son with my child without anyone noticing. But twenty-five years later, the tables turned. My son had grown into a street thug, while her son—raised under my care—rose smoothly through life. Young as he was, he had already become a CEO. He was dutiful, bought me a villa, and even sent me traveling around the world. My sister barged into his company, waving a DNA test report, kicking up a scene, only to be thrown out by security. "Mr. Kieran said that even if you are his biological mother, you never gave him a single day of care," they told her. "So he refuses to acknowledge you." Breaking down completely, she drove her car into me and ended my life. When I opened my eyes again, we had returned to the very day she switched our babies. This time, my sister clutched her own child tightly, a wild, triumphant grin on her face. "From now on, you can be the mother of a street thug," she sneered. "The villa and all those riches—they're mine!"

My son, Ryan Fischer, gets into a car accident and urgently requires a blood transfusion. I get on my knees and beg my widowed sister-in-law, Serena Lowe, to donate her blood to him. However, my husband, Neil Fischer, stops me. "You can't use Serena's blood, because she's Ryan's actual biological mother," he says. I fail to understand the meaning behind his words. "Although Serena helps me take care of Ryan, he's still my child in the end!" I argue. After a momentary silence, Serena kneels before me. She reveals, "Now that things have come to this, I won't keep you in the dark any longer. Your actual son was smothered to death right after birth. Ryan is Neil's and my biological child. "We had you raise him because your family is well-off. They are capable of providing Ryan with a good education and job opportunities." I'm dumbfounded. I tug on the hem of Neil's shirt and beg him to tell me that Serena's lying, only to be coldly shaken off. He declares, "If not for this sudden turn of events, we would have kept this secret until your dying day." Consumed by rage, I suffer a sudden heart attack. And yet, Neil and Serena proceed to sign a Do-Not-Resuscitate order. Instead of saving me, they wheel me off to provide Ryan with a blood transfusion. As I lie on a hospital bed, dying in agony, their family hugs each other tearfully right next door. "That woman got exactly what she deserved. We can finally be openly reunited." When I next open my eyes, I find that I have returned to the moment before I gave birth.