If I Could Undo Yesterday

My name is Randal Coolidge. I've been married to Martha Stafford for five years, and our marriage has long since become a stagnant, dead pool. She hates me. That, I know better than anyone. In her eyes, I'm just a thief, a usurper who stole everything that should have belonged to someone else. There are rarely any peaceful moments between us; most of the time, it's endless arguing. That day was no exception. We had just left an awkward family gathering, sat in the car, and the argument started all over again. "Randal, can't you have a little self-awareness?" "You occupy the position of Coolidge Family heir and hold an engagement that shouldn't even belong to you. Don't you find that disgusting?" Martha Stafford's voice dripped with sarcasm, and the disgust in her eyes was almost overwhelming. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, my tone turning cold: "Martha, the engagement was arranged by both our families, and the position of Coolidge Family heir is something I earned on my own. It's no one else's business." "No one else's business?" She seemed to have heard the biggest joke in the world, laughing with tears, "Have you forgotten Ralph? Your brother Ralph Coolidge!" "If it weren't for you, he would be the master of the Coolidge family, and I should be his wife!" Ralph Coolidge again. In these five years, this name has been like a thorn, piercing between Martha and me, and also stabbing into my heart. But I never actually had a brother. I was about to speak up in denial when suddenly I caught sight of a big truck coming at us in the rearview mirror, its headlights blinding, moving at an alarming speed. "Watch out!" I instinctively shouted, about to turn the steering wheel to avoid it. But Martha Stafford was quicker than me—she suddenly lunged forward with all her strength and pushed me toward the passenger seat. The loud crash exploded in my ears; the car crumpled instantly, glass shards flying everywhere. I was shoved aside by Martha and only suffered minor injuries, but she was struck directly by the truck's impact. Blood quickly soaked her clothes—and clouded my vision. I clutched her desperately, my voice trembling: "Martha, hold on, I'm calling an ambulance—I'm calling right now!" Her breath grew weaker and weaker, her eyes beginning to lose focus, yet she stubbornly gripped my hand, murmuring something softly. I leaned in close, straining to hear her words clearly. "Ralph... I love you..." She paused, her breath barely there, as if confessing, "Randal... I'm sorry..." After saying that, her hand went limp and fell away, her eyes closing forever. I held her cold body, my mind utterly blank. Ralph, the one she claimed to love—my "younger brother"—who is he, really? I definitely don't have a younger brother. A wave of immense grief and confusion surged through me; everything went black, and I lost consciousness. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself sitting in the car, with Martha Stafford glaring at me in anger. "Randal, what are you spacing out for? Didn't you hear me when I was talking to you?"