My Dad Tried to Kill Me, for His Mistress' Son - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

My father didn't just cheat on my mom—he tried to kill us. He tampered with her car, sabotaging the brakes. We barely survived the crash that followed, fighting for our lives in the hospital.
But while we were clinging to hope, my father was signing our death warrants—literally. He authorized the doctors to stop our treatment and agreed to donate our organs.
Why?
Because his mistress had given him what he always wanted—a son. And that bastard child was dying of kidney failure. Turns out, my mom and I were perfect matches.
Then, fate gave me a second chance. I woke up on the morning of the accident—before everything went to hell.
I looked at my father's fake smile, at my mother's exhausted face, worn down by years of sacrifice, and I swore to myself:
This time, that cheating bastard and his mistress wouldn't win.
I always knew my father never wanted me. Just because I was a girl.
He was obsessed with having a son, ranting about how the "Marshall legacy" would die without one. As if we were some kind of royalty.
After I was born, my mother got pregnant three more times. Each time the doctors said it wasn't a boy, he forced her to abort.
After so many procedures, she couldn't have children anymore. He mocked her mercilessly, calling her a "useless hen that couldn't lay eggs."
I begged her to leave, but she clung to the delusion that he still loved us.
Things only got better when I started middle school—he stopped hitting us, stopped screaming.
Later, I found out why. That was around the time his mistress gave birth to his precious golden child—a son.
A heartless father. A mother blinded by love. A mistress waiting to steal her place. Even with this second chance, just thinking about it made my blood boil.
"Be careful on the way. Call me when you get there, okay?"
His fake concern made my skin crawl.
What kind of monster sacrifices his own wife and daughter to save his bastard son? Even animals protect their own.
But my father? He wasn't human. He was worse.
As we pulled out of the driveway, I kept warning my mom, "Take it slow. Be careful."
Before we hit the highway, I insisted we stop at a repair shop near the entrance.
She gave me an exasperated look. "What's gotten into you? Your dad just had the car serviced. What could be wrong?"
I exhaled sharply. "Mom, I have a bad feeling. My heart's racing. We're about to drive for hours—just get it checked, please?"
Before she could argue, I turned to the mechanic. "Can you check the brakes?"