The Fine Art of MisunderstandingFrom the time I was little, something in me was always a little off—I never listened to the whole story, only half of it.
My grandmother called me a good-for-nothing who was financially burdening the family. She bought a little boy to be my younger brother and told me to take good care of him. I understood the part about buying a child, so I immediately called the police and reported her for illegal human trafficking.
My father pointed at my face and cursed me for being unfilial, accusing me of cutting off his family line. I obeyed him, crept into his room while he slept that night, and used a knife to "cut off his lineage."
My father screamed in agony. In the chaos, he accidentally killed me.
When I opened my eyes again, I had transmigrated into the female lead of a melodramatic abuse novel.
After ten years of marriage to the cruel male lead, his childhood sweetheart had just returned from abroad and was undergoing kidney surgery.
He dragged me to the hospital and cruelly ordered me to donate a kidney to his precious first love.
I nodded obediently, went out and bought a pig, and on the spot dug out the pig's kidney and handed it to him.