That afternoon, I handed in my resignation at the deli.

The manager was confused. "Vivian, you're a hard worker. We were just about to give you a raise…"

Just then, my mother-in-law, Sofia, called.

"Vivian, it's Lina's birthday today. She loves your cooking. Just take the day off. It's not like that job of yours is important anyway…"

She was right. This job wasn't important at all.

A year ago, on the day I got my acceptance letter from MIT, my mother-in-law fell down the stairs. No one else was home. I called Lorenzo, but one of his men said he was on an important mission.

It was pouring rain that day, and I couldn't get a cab.

I had no choice but to carry her on my back for three miles to get to the hospital.

I missed the registration deadline. The next day, I found out Lorenzo's "important mission" was escorting Isabella on a shopping spree at luxury stores.

Isabella was Chicago's only specially-recruited medical expert who had studied abroad, supposedly mastering the most advanced medical techniques in Europe.

The government took her security very seriously.

Federal marshals had indeed requested protection for her, and the task was given to Marco's most trusted brother-in-arms. But it didn't require Lorenzo himself to do it; any of his men could have handled that detail.

That was the first time he ever apologized to me.

For that apology, I willingly gave up my dream of going to MIT.

Later, the Moretti family found me this "unimportant" job.

Hearing my mother-in-law on the phone, the manager looked awkward, but mostly sad for me.

She patted my shoulder like a mother.

"It's understandable to make sacrifices for your family, but don't just give up your own career. People are all the same; even the person who loves you most will judge you based on your value to society."

She had learned that lesson the hard way and didn't want me to make the same mistake.

But hadn't I already lost a lifetime?

My eyes stung. "Thank you. I'll remember that."

After packing my things, my coworker ran out after me.

"Vivian, you forgot something."

I looked. It was the Montblanc pen Lorenzo had given me when we were first married. In my last life, I carried it with me until the day I died.

"I don't want it anymore. You can have it. You always liked it, right?"

My coworker was thrilled. And I had one less thing tying me to the past.