My Unexpectedly Pregnant Cousin

I lay on the cold road, the searing pain from the car tires crushing my body still spreading. The last thing I saw was Yolanda Scott's face—falsely apologetic on the surface, yet harboring venomous malice beneath. She was clearly my beloved cousin; I secretly arranged for someone to take her for the abortion surgery. How did it end up with me being accused of "forcing her to abort"? The torrents of online abuse surged like a tidal wave. The hospital suspended my residency, and with no way out, I was forced to resign. I believed her apology was genuine, but when I let my guard down, she suddenly shoved me into the path of a speeding truck. In the last second before losing consciousness, I was consumed only by endless regret and defiance — how could I have been so blind to help such an ungrateful wretch? "Cousin! Cousin, please open the door!" Urgent knocking, mixed with Yolanda Scott's sobs, suddenly pulled me back from the void. I froze, stiffly raised my hand, and touched my body — no wounds, no searing pain, just the lingering warmth of having just crawled out from under the covers. This isn't the coldness of death — this is... the feeling of being alive? I staggered to the door and peered through the peephole. There, I saw Yolanda Scott kneeling on the steps outside my house, wearing a thin coat, her hands covering her face, shoulders trembling with sobs. This scene—I knew it all too well. It was the day in my previous life when Yolanda found out she was unexpectedly pregnant and came to me for help. It turned out I had been reborn. I was reborn at the very moment the tragedy began. Taking a deep breath, I swallowed the storm of emotions inside me and opened the door. When Yolanda Scott saw me open the door, she immediately rushed over, trying to grab my hand, her eyes filled with panic: "Cousin, I beg you, please help me! I'm pregnant, I can't let my parents find out!" I instinctively stepped back, avoiding her touch. Her hand froze in mid-air, and the sobbing on her face faltered, as if she hadn't expected this reaction from me. In my past life, it was because I pitied her like that that I rashly agreed to help her—only to end up with such a tragic outcome. This time, I will never make the same mistake again. "Yolanda Scott, get up first. Kneeling like that looks awful." My voice was calm, stripped of the urgency and pain I felt before. Yolanda froze, still refusing to get up, and instead cried even harder: "Cousin, I really have no other choice! I asked Felix, but he said he doesn't care about me. I can only come to you! You're a doctor—you must have a way. Please help me find a place to have the child aborted, okay?" "I can't." I cut her off sharply, my voice firm: "I'm only an intern doctor right now, and I have no authority to arrange surgeries on my own." "Besides, at a proper hospital, an abortion surgery requires a guardian's signature. You're not yet an adult, and without parental consent, no one can perform it on you." I said these words clearly, watching the panic growing more obvious on Yolanda Scott's face. She probably never expected that I, who always fulfilled her every request before, would so decisively refuse her this time. Yolanda Scott wanted to say more, but my cell phone suddenly rang. I glanced at the caller ID—it was my grandmother. I answered the phone, and before I could speak, my grandmother's sharp voice came through the receiver: "Cindy! Are you home? Yolanda came to you for your help. Why aren't you helping her?" "Grandmother, it's not that I don't want to help, it's that I really can't." I explained patiently, "I'm an intern doctor; privately arranging surgery is against regulations. If it's serious, I could lose my license and even face legal responsibility."