Emotional Intelligence Daniel Goleman

My mom gets buzzed at the family dinner and insists on burning my admission letter. She says, "You're a guy, and yet you can't get into Horvard University! What makes you think you can study at any university now? You might as well quit studying altogether!" I try to stop her from doing so, only for my dad to stop me instead. "It's just a stupid scrap of paper. Don't put a damper on your mom's mood, now. Can't you just retake the college admission exam?" Just like that, my fruit of labor gets burned to ashes. When I'm studying for the exam again, Mom keeps inviting people home for drinks. All I do is utter one complaint, and I get beaten to death by her drinking buddies. When I open my eyes again, I've returned to the night of the family dinner. This time, I've swapped out my admission letter to the IOU her boss has told her to safeguard. Go ahead and burn it. Two years later, I'll be sure to visit you at your grave, Mom.

During the holiday, my six-year-old son received his cleft-lip surgery. He wore a mask and sat quietly in our family bookstore, engrossed in a picture book. A young man came in, pinching his nose dramatically as he swaggered up to the manager. "Why did you let someone with an infectious disease in here?" he demanded loudly. "Get them out!" The manager winced. "Sir, I'm sorry, but I don't have the authority to remove other customers." Undeterred, the man marched up to me. "Be wise and get out of here. My girlfriend is Imogen Slater, CEO of the Slater Group. You don't want to mess with me." I froze in stunned silence. Imogen despised all men except me, and this guy claimed she was his girlfriend.

After a full week of night shifts, I make a fatal mistake—injecting my son, Ricky Lambert, with phenobarbital, mistaking it for an antibiotic. The injection stops his breathing instantly, and the hospital soon declares him brain-dead. My husband, Terence Lambert, completely falls apart when he hears the news. The only thing that calms him is holding his nephew, Ryan Lambert, who looks so much like Ricky. So, I give up my transfer to Harborstone to Wendy Larson, my brother-in-law's wife. I even agree to adopt her son. Because of that mistake, I work hard and endure Terence's coldness day after day without a word of complaint. Ten years later, when Wendy returns home a success, that's when I accidentally overhear her speaking with Terence. "Back then, to help me get residency at Harborstone, you swapped the medicine and killed your own son. Do you really not regret it?" Terence sneers. "Of course not. I promised I'd help you rise above the rest. And I know Rosalie too well. If she knows there is a chance to go back to Harborstone, she'll fight you for it to the bitter end. "I have to use Ricky's death to trap her for good. It also gives me the perfect excuse to make her raise our son, so you can focus on your career without any burden." I can't believe what I'm hearing. I run out the door and accidentally fall into a raging river. When I open my eyes again, I've returned to the very day the hospital declares Ricky dead.

My son is severely allergic to pollen, and because of his rare blood type, he must receive a specific desensitization injection at a bigger hospital in a different state. To make that happen, I deliberately booked the same flight as my wife just so our son could get help as soon as possible. But she insists on waiting for her late-arriving first love, refusing to let the plane take off. When I confront her, she says, "All passengers are equal. If the plane can wait for you, why can't it wait for him? Cam still needs to celebrate Josie's birthday. It's just ten minutes. Nothing will happen!" However, by the time we arrive at the hospital, the doctor tells us we missed the critical window for treatment. We were just ten minutes too late. Our son has now become a vegetable.

After I dropped out of school, my parents didn't pressure me to do anything. But Nicole Hicks kept calling nonstop. She was my boyfriend's childhood friend who had established a reputation as a genius. I was too busy helping out in the fields, growing vegetables, and splashing around in the creek, living my best carefree life. Writing code wasn't even on my mind. In my past life, she had turned in a project just one day before I did. Her codes were exactly the same as mine. Everyone called me a fraud and said I had stolen it. I tried to explain, but no one believed me. Later, she even did a livestream, accusing me online of being a school bully. People went wild. They didn't just come for me—they went after my whole family. Some obsessed troll chased my parents in a car, and they died in a crash. I couldn't take it anymore. I jumped off a high-rise, my eyes still wide open, refusing to accept the way it all ended. Even in my last moment, I couldn't figure it out. That code was mine. My hard work. So how did she manage to post it before me? When I opened my eyes again, I was back, right before everything fell apart.

On the day of the company's annual gala, I quit my job and went back to the countryside, using up all my savings to help my best friend raise her daughter. She had died tragically, swept away by the river while trying to retrieve my hundred-million-dollar gala prize ticket that had fallen into the water. Wracked with guilt, I honored her dying wish and married her husband. After the wedding, I sold my blood and even a kidney just to make ends meet, raising my stepdaughter with everything I had. Eventually, she fulfilled her dream of winning the Best Actress Award and was about to marry the richest man in the country. But just as I was preparing to give a speech at her wedding, I saw my best friend, who had been dead for over a decade. She clutched my stepdaughter's hand and accused me of being a homewrecker who seduced her husband, and even claimed I had been the one who pushed her into the river all those years ago. Only then did I learn the truth—she had faked her death all those years ago, just to steal my prize ticket and travel the world, leaving me behind to raise her family. The shock sent me into a cerebral hemorrhage. When I opened my eyes again, I had gone back to the day she drowned.

My mom and dad died heroically in a fire rescue, trying to protect an orphan. Afterward, my brother brought the orphan, Audrey, home. To make her smile, he'd throw away photos of me and our parents. He even kicked me out in front of everyone. For Audrey's coming-of-age celebration, he took her to Cranburn—the place I'd always dreamed of going. In his eyes, I had nowhere else to go. He believed that once I realized I was wrong, I'd come back on my own. But what he didn't know was—I had joined an overseas rescue team. This might be the last time we ever see each other.

The day after the new year, during a family gathering, my aunt sneered at me as I worked overtime, reviewing a proposal. "Why are you pretending to be so busy? It’s not like we don’t know you only make three thousand a month. Real money-makers are people like my daughter, a designer so successful she doesn’t even have time to come home!" I ignored her, but she directed her spoiled son to delete all my files while I was in the bathroom. My hands trembled with rage. "This proposal is due in ten minutes—if I don’t submit it, everything is ruined!" She scoffed dismissively. "He’s just a kid. What could he possibly know? Besides, your job isn’t even worth much. If you lose the files, you lose them. Worst case, you get fired." I chuckled coldly but said nothing. She had no idea it was the proposal her daughter had spent an entire month working on. And I was the client who held her daughter’s fate in my hands.

The day I died was the same day as my twin sister’s birthday party. She was in tears and was wrapped up in my boyfriend’s arms. My mom was seething with anger and kept calling me over and over again. My brother was clearly upset and sent me a text saying, "You’re so selfish. You just can’t stand to see anyone else happy." Even my usually quiet dad was furious and said, "She’s nothing but an ungrateful brat." I touched my chest. Thankfully, it did not hurt anymore.

When I went to register my son, Cody Vantor, for medical insurance before his first year of kindergarten, I was told I wasn’t his biological mother. "Are you sure this is your child? The system shows a different woman listed as the mother." I said nothing. I quietly snapped a photo of the unfamiliar home address, then followed it to the neighboring complex. When he saw me, my husband, Dorian Vantor, froze. His hand instinctively moved to block the doorway. "So you found out. But making a scene won’t change anything. I haven’t treated you badly these past three years." I looked past him, and my body went cold. The woman behind him was my younger sister, Summer Walsh, fresh out of college. She handed him a glass of water and gave me an apologetic smile. "Don’t blame me, Lennie. The doctor said I have postpartum depression. I can’t handle hearing a baby cry. Thank you for raising Cody for me all these years. I really am grateful." Just then, Cody, who had been waiting in the car downstairs, ran up. He rushed into Summer’s arms like it was second nature, then turned to look at me. "Aunt Lenora, don’t cry. Mommy said you’re a good person. That’s why she asked you to help. Daddy said if I behave and call you ‘Mom’ at your house, I can come back on weekends to see my real Mommy."