The Best Vinegar
I died the day before my 30th birthday in my last life.
Cause of death? Acute gastroenteritis complicated by sepsis.
The real culprit was the best vinegar my husband Mike Carter brewed with his own hands.
The ingredients in that vinegar?
Just hearing about them would make you puke up last night's dinner—he used his own foot-washing water as the fermentation starter and let it brew in the bathroom for a full forty-nine days.
In my past life, I warned him. I told him that stuff was disgusting and dangerous.
But he wouldn't listen. He forced me to drink a cup every day and said he planned to bottle it for sale to the retired officials during national day, gloriously dubbing it 'Master's Own Brew.'
I didn't want anyone to get hurt, so I secretly dumped the vinegar he prepared and even refunded the money.
When he found out, he didn't show an ounce of guilt. Instead, he said I was just jealous of his 'natural talent for brewing.'
That night, he tied me to a chair and force-fed me a whole bottle of his 'best vinegar' through a funnel.
I remember the taste—sour and rotten, wrapped in the stench of sweaty feet, burning my throat like it was on fire.
Afterward, I vomited and had diarrhea nonstop until I was dehydrated, feverish, and barely conscious. By the time I reached the hospital, I had sepsis.
The doctor said it was caused by a severe bacterial infection.
When I died, my eyes were wide open, my mind swimming with nothing but bitterness.
The next time I opened my eyes, I was lying in my bedroom bed, my phone screen glowing with messages from the family group chat. Mike just sent a voice message, full of swagger, "Hey everyone, I'm going into seclusion to brew vinegar!"
I touched my throat—no burning, no sick aftertaste. I was reincarnated. Back to the very day Mike announced he'd start brewing vinegar.
Last time, I tore into him in the group chat, called him ridiculous, called him disgusting. What did I get? More of his wild stubbornness, and Mike's mom blowing up at me for not supporting my husband.
This time, I tapped on the screen, first hitting an exclamation mark, then typing: "You're amazing!"
The moment I sent it, I heard Mike laughing from the living room. He probably didn't expect me to be this supportive.
Mike's mother quickly chimed into the group chat: "My son really has talent!" and even added a thumbs-up emoji.
I put down my phone, leaned against the headboard, a cold smile curling on my lips. The suffering you forced on me last life? In this one, I'll make you taste it twice over.
Forty-nine days flew by in no time. On the day Mike came out, he specially made a jellyfish head salad. Carrying the plate into the living room, pride was written all over his face: "Wendy, Mom, come try this! My vinegar mix is definitely something else!"
Mike's mother leaned over to smell it, frowning, "Why does it sting the nose a bit?"
Mike Carter immediately snapped back, "That's exactly the smell! Don't you get it?"
I walked over, grabbed the biggest piece of Jellyfish Head with my chopsticks, and held it up to Mike's mouth, smiling sincerely. "Honey, you try it first. This is your hard work; you have to be the first to judge it."
A flicker of hesitation crossed Mike's face—he probably smelled something was off too.
I kept holding out the chopsticks, eyes 'expectantly' fixed on him. "Honey, this is the cornerstone of your future career. We're all waiting to hear your review."
Mike Carter's vanity was definitely piqued; he laughed, opened his mouth, and said, "Alright! I'll go first!" Then he swallowed that piece of Jellyfish Head in one bite.
He started chewing, his brow furrowing then relaxing, with an expression that was downright weird.
I asked, "How is it, honey? Tasty?" My tone was dripping with "concern."
He smacked his lips, then after a long pause managed to say, "Hmm... rich flavor, nice aftertaste! Great vinegar!"
I immediately clapped loudly: "Fantastic! I want to try some too!"
I picked up my chopsticks, grabbed a small piece, carefully avoided the vinegar juice, popped it into my mouth, chewed twice, then spat it into the napkin, pretending to savor it: "Hmm! It’s special, just a bit strong."
Then I grabbed another piece and handed it over to Mike's mother: "Mom, you have to try this."
Mike's mother saw Mike eating it and couldn't refuse anymore, so she took it. She put the Jellyfish Head in her mouth and, the next second, her face went pale green.
Her expression looked like she'd swallowed a live fly. She wanted to spit it out, but with Mike staring at her, she forced it down.
Mike Carter asked, "Mom, how is it? Does it taste good?" His tone was full of hope.
Mike's mother forced out a smile: "Good... good stuff, just really strong."
Mike Carter grew even prouder, slapping the table and saying, "See! This vinegar is only for the lucky—weaklings just can't handle it!"
Then he grabbed another huge mouthful, chewing loudly like he was bragging about his toughness.
I sat beside them, watching this mother and son—one feigning calm, the other drunk on his own hype—and sneered inwardly. Last life, you forced me to eat this crap. This life? Enjoy it... slowly.
That night at dinner, Mike Carter and Mike's mother demolished most of the Jellyfish Head. I played the weak card and only took a tiny bite, letting them eat the rest.
In the dead of night, both the master and guest bathrooms erupted with explosive diarrhea. The sounds overlapped, punctuated by flushes.
I lay in bed, hearing it all crystal clear—and slept like a baby.
Early the next morning, I got up to make breakfast and saw Mike Carter and Mike's mother coming out of the bathroom, their faces waxy pale and their eye sockets sunken deep.
The moment Mike's mother saw me, she lost it, pointing her finger and snapping, "Wendy! Did you tamper with the food? Why are you the only one unharmed?"
I set down the bowl, wearing my most innocent look. "Mom, what are you talking about? Mike made the dish, and the vinegar was brewed by him. I didn't even touch it."
I paused and looked at Mike with all the fake concern I could muster. "Honey, are you okay? Maybe the vinegar's just too strong. I read in some ancient book that good stuff can cause a rejection reaction at first—it's called the positive reaction."
"The positive reaction" is something I made up on the spot, but the moment Mike Carter heard it, his eyes lit up and he slapped his thigh: "Exactly! How did I not think of that? This is the positive reaction! It means my vinegar is working!"
Staring at his sickly pale face, instead of feeling ill, he actually saw it as the beginning of a rebirth.
Mike's mother was still a bit doubtful and grabbed Mike Carter, asking, "Really? You're not just sick from bad food?"
"Of course not!" Mike said firmly, "Mom, this is a blessing! We're purifying the body! Wendy just didn't eat enough and missed the perfect opportunity!"
I lowered my head, pretending to be remorseful, my voice soft: "It's all my fault for having such a weak body—I just wasn't lucky enough to enjoy good food."
Mike Carter didn't doubt his vinegar one bit; in fact, thanks to this "positive reaction," he got even more hooked on brewing vinegar. He figured nailing it on the first try proved he had talent.
He sat on the sofa, and said, "I need to set up a proper vinegar-brewing dojo, controlling temperature and humidity like a pro—only then will the vinegar be top-notch!"
The moment I heard that, I seized the chance and quickly said, “Honey, you're absolutely right! Our guest bathroom faces a great direction and it's quiet. Why don't we turn it into your vinegar-brewing spot? I'll help clear everything out so you can focus on your brewing.”
Mike Carter's eyes lit up instantly. He grabbed my hand and said, “Wifey, you're truly my perfect partner! Fantastic! Let's do this!”
He never once thought about what a sealed-off, closed bathroom would turn into—a petri dish for bacteria.
All he could picture was his 'premium vinegar.'
He even told me his next plan was to brew a special National Day edition to sell to the retired officials: “Those retired officials have money and taste—they'll definitely love my vinegar!”
He spoke with such excitement, like he could already see himself succeeding.
I looked at the sickly flush on his face and smiled, nodding: "Alright, husband, I support you."
Mike's mother noticed how 'virtuous' I've been acting toward Mike lately and grew suspicious.
One day, while Mike was locked away in the guest bathroom, she cornered me in the kitchen, her eyes stabbing me like knives: "Wendy Scott, what are you really up to?"
She snapped bitterly, "Before, when we asked you to support Mike, you were crying and causing a scene. Now you're more eager than anyone else."
My hand paused while cutting an apple; the knife spun a circle in my hand. I looked up at her and said, "Mom, you're overthinking. Husband and wife are one—his career is my career. Of course, I should support him.”
"Don't pull that with me!" Mike's mom didn't buy it and jabbed her finger at my nose. "I'm telling you, if anything happens to Mike, you're done for!"
I set down the apple knife, wiped my hands, and looked at her calmly. "Mom, Mike is your son and my husband. I want the best for him more than anyone. As for you, after that terrible reaction last time, are you okay? Mike said the vinegar's pretty harsh—maybe take it easy next time."
Mike's mother's face instantly turned green. She opened her mouth to curse me but couldn't find the words. She just shot me a hateful glare, then spun around and slammed the door.
I watched her walk away, the corner of my mouth curling into a wider grin.
Mike Carter's second seclusion was even crazier than the first.
He taped up every door and window of the Guest Bathroom, claiming he wanted to trap the 'spiritual energy.'
Every day, he left only a crack for me to slip his meals through.
One time when I was handing him food, I peeked through the slit and nearly vomited. The floor was covered with bottles and jars of every size.
The air reeked of sour rot, even worse than before, mixed with a strong stink. And Mike's foot... it was a disaster—red, swollen, plastered with pus-filled blisters that oozed at the slightest touch, filling the air with a sickening stench.
But he was grinning like a maniac when he told me it was a 'deep fusion with vinegar malt,' saying the pus was the 'essence.'
I handed him the food with a poker face, all the while plotting my next move.
National Day was getting closer, and Mike Carter's special edition of the best vinegar was about to launch. He even made a list, packed with all his dad's old retired bosses.
He showed off the list to me: “Honey, look, these people will be begging to buy my vinegar!”
“Once they drink it and start feeling better, they'll all owe me a favor!”
The night before I left town, Mike's mother suddenly appeared holding a small bottle. That bottle was the one I'd hidden in the kitchen cabinet—my 'secret weapon.' My heart sank; I hadn't expected her to find it.
"Wendy, don't pretend anymore!" Mike's mother snapped, holding up the bottle like it was proof. "I saw you adding something to Mike's food! What is this? Are you trying to kill my son?!"
She grabbed her phone and started dialing Mike. "I'm calling him right now so he can see the true face of you!"
Mike Carter, in the guest bathroom, heard the noise too and shouted from inside, "Mom? Who's outside? What's all that noise?"
Just as Mike's mother was about to speak, I fixed her with a cold stare. On the stove behind me, a kettle was boiling. The water was bubbling, and steam was pushing the lid up with a steady thud.
A second before Mike's mother could say anything, I spun around, grabbed the kettle, and with a slip, it crashed to the floor with a loud bang. Scalding hot water splashed everywhere—right onto her feet.
"Aah—!" Mike's mother let out a sharp, agonized scream and collapsed to the floor, clutching her foot and writhing.
I stood frozen, still clutching the kettle like I was about to pour water, my face the perfect mix of 'panic' and 'innocence.'
The Guest Bathroom door slammed open with a bang. Mike Carter burst out, seeing his mother writhing on the floor while I stood there trembling.
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