He Pushed His Nine-Months-Pregnant Wife Off an Icy Cliff for $50 Million—Then She Walked Into Her Own Funeral

The last thing I heard before I fell was my husband’s laughter.

The wind screamed around us, snow whipped against my face, and beneath my feet stretched a cliff that disappeared into frozen darkness.

I was nine months pregnant.

One hand clutched my stomach. The other reached desperately for the man I had loved for five years.

“Jack,” I whispered. “Please.”

He looked down at me without a trace of fear.

“Don’t worry,” he said coldly. “The baby won’t suffer for long.”

Then he pushed me.

For one terrible second, I saw his face above me, smiling against the storm. Then the world vanished, and I fell into the abyss.

My name is Evelyn Sterling. I was twenty-nine years old, the only daughter of billionaire businessman Richard Sterling, and the wife of a man who believed my death would make him fifty million dollars richer.

What Jack didn’t know was that the woman he had just thrown off that cliff was not going to die quietly.

And he certainly didn’t know that I would one day walk into my own funeral and watch his face crumble in front of everyone he had deceived.

But to understand how I survived, you need to understand why my husband wanted me dead.

The Husband Everyone Admired

When I met Jack, he was charming, ambitious, and seemingly untouched by the arrogance that surrounded my father’s world.

I grew up surrounded by wealth. My father built Sterling Global from a small investment firm into an international empire. He owned hotels, commercial properties, technology companies, and investments that made financial magazines eager to publish his photograph.

But money had never made him a warm man.

He loved me, certainly, but he expressed that love through security, private schools, expensive gifts, and an endless list of warnings about people who might want something from our family.

When I met Jack at a charity gala, I thought I had finally found someone who saw me rather than my surname.

He made me laugh. He listened to my stories. He never asked my father for a job or an introduction.

When I told him I wanted a marriage built on love rather than money, he took my hands and said, “Then we’ll build our own life. Just you and me.”

I believed him.

Against my father’s objections, I married Jack in a small ceremony overlooking the ocean.

My father attended, but he never fully trusted my husband.

“Evelyn,” he told me privately, “a man’s character is easiest to see when he believes no one can challenge him.”

I kissed his cheek.

“You’re judging him before you’ve given him a chance.”

My father sighed.

“I hope you’re right, sweetheart.”

For the first two years, I was convinced I was.

Jack was attentive. He remembered anniversaries, brought me coffee in bed, and held my hand when we walked through the city. He spoke constantly about our future.

Then I became pregnant.

When the doctor told us we were having a daughter, Jack lifted me from the examination table and spun me around until I laughed.

“A little girl,” he whispered. “I’ll protect both of you with my life.”

I pressed my forehead against his.

I had no idea those words would become the cruelest lie I had ever heard.

The Policy Worth Fifty Million Dollars

The first warning came six months into my pregnancy.

Jack told me he wanted to increase our life insurance coverage.

“It’s responsible,” he explained over breakfast. “With a baby coming, we need to make sure you’re protected.”

I wasn’t comfortable discussing death while preparing for our daughter’s birth, but Jack insisted.

He said his financial adviser had found an excellent arrangement. He brought documents to the house, pointed to signature lines, and explained everything in a confident voice.

I signed some of the paperwork after being told it was part of our financial planning. I did not fully understand the arrangements he was making, and I trusted him to handle the details honestly.

Later, I discovered that the policy he had arranged would pay fifty million dollars upon my death, subject to its terms and the investigation of any claim.

Jack was the beneficiary.

At the time, I knew nothing about his mounting debts.

I knew nothing about the secret accounts, the money he had borrowed from dangerous people, or the mistress he had been seeing for nearly a year.

Her name was Vanessa Cole.

She was beautiful, ambitious, and perfectly comfortable living a life funded by someone else’s promises.

Jack had told her that his marriage was already over.

He had told her I was difficult, controlling, and determined to keep him trapped in my father’s shadow.

Most importantly, he had told her that once I was gone, he would be free.

And rich.

The fifty million dollars would erase his debts, buy him a new identity in the eyes of society, and give him the life he believed he deserved.

He only needed one thing.

For his pregnant wife to disappear in a way that looked like an accident.

The Trip to the Mountains

Three weeks before my due date, Jack suggested a short trip to a luxury mountain lodge.

“You’ve been working so hard to prepare the nursery,” he said. “You deserve one last peaceful weekend before the baby arrives.”

I hesitated.

My doctor had advised me to avoid strenuous activities and remain close to medical care. Jack assured me we would stay at the lodge, enjoy the scenery, and return home early.

I agreed after confirming that the trip would be restful.

The lodge stood among towering pine trees, surrounded by mountains covered in fresh snow. For the first day, everything seemed wonderful.

Jack brought me hot chocolate, wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and took photographs of us beside the fireplace.

He even knelt beside my stomach and spoke to our daughter.

“Daddy can’t wait to meet you,” he whispered.

I smiled at him.

I loved that man.

That evening, he suggested we take a short walk to a scenic overlook.

“The view is incredible after a snowfall,” he said. “You’ll want to remember it.”

I put on my warmest coat and comfortable boots. We stayed on the marked path, moving slowly through the snow.

But Jack kept guiding me farther from the lodge.

When I asked whether we should turn back, he said the overlook was just ahead.

Then the trees thinned.

A steep cliff opened before us, its edge obscured by blowing snow.

I stopped immediately.

“Jack, this is too dangerous.”

He turned toward me.

For the first time in our marriage, I saw no affection in his face.

Only impatience.

“Do you know what your problem is, Evelyn?” he asked.

I stared at him.

“What?”

“You’ve always believed the world owes you protection because your father is rich.”

I stepped back.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He laughed bitterly.

“You get everything. The name. The money. The beautiful life. And I get to spend the rest of my life being the man who married Richard Sterling’s daughter.”

“Jack, please. We can go back to the lodge.”

He moved closer.

“You have no idea how much I hate hearing people call me lucky.”

My heart began to race.

“Then leave,” I whispered. “If you’re unhappy, leave me. We can work out the divorce.”

His expression changed.

“Divorce?”

“Yes. Take whatever belongs to you. Just let me go home.”

He stared at me as if I had said something absurd.

“You still don’t understand.”

He pulled a folded document from his coat pocket.

It was a copy of the insurance policy.

“Fifty million dollars, Evelyn. Do you understand what that means?”

My blood turned cold.

“You’re the beneficiary,” I whispered.

“Exactly.”

I looked at the man standing before me, desperately searching for the husband I had known.

“Jack, I’m carrying your child.”

He glanced at my stomach.

For one brief moment, I hoped that would reach him.

Instead, he said, “I know.”

I turned to run.

He grabbed my arm.

I screamed.

He shoved me toward the cliff.

My boots slipped on the ice. I reached for him, for a branch, for anything that might keep me from falling.

He pushed again.

And I went over the edge.

As I fell, I heard him laugh.

“Don’t worry,” he called into the storm. “The baby won’t suffer for long.”

Then everything disappeared.

The Miracle at the Bottom of the Cliff

I don’t remember the entire fall.

I remember the shock of impact, the taste of blood, and a pain so overwhelming that I couldn’t tell where my body ended and the freezing ground began.

I remember trying to breathe.

I remember pressing my hands against my stomach and whispering my daughter’s name, even though we hadn’t officially chosen one.

Then I remember nothing.

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in a hospital bed.

Bright lights blurred above me. Machines beeped beside my head. My entire body felt as though it had been broken and assembled again incorrectly.

A woman in blue scrubs leaned over me.

“Can you hear me?”

I tried to speak, but my throat was painfully dry.

“Your name,” she said gently. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Evelyn,” I whispered.

She looked toward someone outside the room.

“She’s awake.”

A doctor arrived moments later.

He explained that a mountain rescue team had found me near the bottom of the ravine after a severe storm. I had fallen onto a steep, snow-covered ledge and slid into a lower area where a cluster of trees had helped break my fall.

The rescue team had initially been searching for a missing hiker. They discovered me by chance.

My injuries were serious. I had suffered multiple fractures, severe bruising, and dangerous complications related to the pregnancy.

But I was alive.

And my baby was alive.

The doctors had performed an emergency delivery.

My daughter had been born prematurely and was receiving intensive care.

“She’s very small,” the doctor told me, “but she’s fighting.”

Tears streamed down my face.

“Can I see her?”

“Not yet. You need to recover first.”

I closed my eyes and cried.

For the first time since the cliff, I allowed myself to feel the terror of what had happened.

Jack had tried to kill me.

He had tried to kill our daughter.

And he had left us to die in the snow.

But he had failed.

The News That Destroyed Him—or So He Thought

I was in no condition to make phone calls.

The hospital staff contacted my emergency contacts, and my father arrived within hours of learning that I had been found.

I will never forget the expression on his face when he entered my room.

For the first time in my life, Richard Sterling looked completely helpless.

He took my hand and bent his head over it.

“My girl,” he whispered. “My beautiful girl.”

“Dad,” I cried.

He kissed my forehead repeatedly.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

I tried to tell him what Jack had done, but the words came out in fragments. The pain medication, exhaustion, and trauma made it difficult to explain everything clearly.

My father listened without interrupting.

When I finally stopped, he remained silent for several seconds.

Then his face changed.

Not into rage.

Into something colder.

“Evelyn,” he said carefully, “I believe you. But we’re going to let the evidence speak, too. You and the baby are the only priorities right now.”

He called his security chief and the family attorney. The authorities were informed, and arrangements were made to preserve my medical records and any evidence relating to the incident.

But before anyone could explain my survival to the world, a different story had already begun.

The mountain lodge had reported Jack’s account of the disappearance. He claimed we had gone for a walk during the storm and that he had lost sight of me near the overlook.

Search crews found traces of the fall and blood on the ice.

The weather was brutal. The terrain was dangerous. The first search had failed to locate me.

Jack told the authorities that he believed I had fallen into the ravine.

He said he had tried desperately to reach me.

He said he had screamed my name until his voice gave out.

He even showed them photographs of us from earlier that day.

Then, as the search continued, he began telling friends and reporters that I was almost certainly dead.

Eventually, the authorities informed my family that they had no reasonable expectation of finding me alive.

My father refused to accept that conclusion, but he could not publicly announce my survival while I was still recovering and the investigation was ongoing.

The world received a devastating headline.

Billionaire’s Pregnant Daughter Presumed Dead After Mountain Accident.

Jack’s performance was extraordinary.

He cried in front of cameras. He spoke about our unborn daughter. He described me as the love of his life.

When reporters asked about the insurance policy, he claimed the money was irrelevant.

“I would give every dollar I own to have my wife back,” he said.

I watched the clip from my hospital bed.

Then I turned away.

Because the man on the screen was the same man who had laughed as I fell.

The Funeral of a Woman Who Was Still Alive

Three days later, Jack organized a memorial service.

My body had never been recovered, but he insisted that our family needed closure. He arranged a large service at an old cathedral, invited business leaders, politicians, celebrities, and everyone who had ever known the Sterling family.

My father refused to attend.

He said he would not stand beside the man who had tried to murder his daughter.

Instead, he remained at the hospital with me while my medical team continued treating my injuries.

My daughter was still in intensive care, but her condition was improving.

Every day, I sat beside her incubator and placed my fingers against the tiny opening in the side.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” I whispered. “Mommy’s here.”

I named her Grace.

Because she had survived the impossible.

And because, despite everything Jack had done, I wanted her life to begin with something beautiful.

On the morning of the memorial, my father received a message from an investigator working with the authorities.

There had been a development in the insurance records and in Jack’s account of the incident.

My father read it, then looked at me.

“Are you strong enough to hear something difficult?”

I nodded.

He explained that the investigation had uncovered evidence suggesting Jack had been preparing for my death before our trip. Investigators were examining communications, financial transactions, and the circumstances surrounding the insurance policy.

They had also found inconsistencies in his timeline.

I listened carefully.

“Dad,” I said, “I want to expose him.”

My father held my hand.

“You don’t have to do anything before you’re ready.”

“I know.”

I looked toward Grace’s incubator.

“But I won’t let him turn our deaths into a performance while he collects money and walks away.”

My father nodded.

“Then we’ll do this properly. We’ll work with the authorities, preserve the evidence, and make sure nothing is done that could compromise the case.”

By afternoon, the cathedral was full.

Jack stood at the front wearing a black suit. Vanessa stood beside him in a fitted black dress, her hand resting on his arm.

She was pretending to grieve.

I knew because I had seen the photograph of them together that the investigator had recovered from Jack’s phone.

They had been together in a hotel room two nights before my fall.

In one message, Vanessa had asked when they could finally stop hiding.

Jack had replied:

Soon. Once Evelyn is gone, everything changes.

At the cathedral, he bowed his head while people offered condolences.

“I don’t know how I’ll live without her,” he told an old family friend.

Vanessa squeezed his hand.

“You’ll get through this,” she whispered.

Then she leaned closer.

“After everything she put you through, she finally got what she deserved.”

Jack glanced around to make sure no one had heard.

“I know,” he murmured. “Soon, we’ll have everything.”

He had no idea that a member of the investigative team had been informed about the conversation and was documenting the relevant evidence.

He also had no idea that my father had arranged for the authorities to be present in case the situation required immediate intervention.

And he certainly had no idea that I was on my way.

The Cathedral Doors Burst Open

I entered the cathedral slowly, leaning on a cane.

My injuries had not healed completely. My ribs still hurt when I breathed deeply, and I was exhausted after the journey from the hospital.

My father walked beside me, his arm supporting mine.

Behind us were members of his security team and two officials involved in the investigation.

The cathedral doors swung open.

The organ stopped.

Hundreds of people turned.

At first, nobody moved.

A woman in the front row dropped her program.

Someone gasped.

Then a whisper spread through the room.

“Is that…?”

“No. It can’t be.”

“Evelyn?”

Jack turned toward the doors.

His expression was one I would remember for the rest of my life.

First came confusion.

Then disbelief.

Then the color drained from his face so quickly that he looked as though he might collapse.

His lips parted.

He took one step backward.

“No,” he whispered.

I kept walking.

Vanessa released his arm.

Her face went white.

I stopped several feet from the coffin that had been placed at the front of the cathedral.

It was empty.

Of course it was empty.

Jack had wanted a funeral without a body because he believed the snow would erase the evidence of his crime.

Now he stood beside the empty coffin, watching the woman he had declared dead walk toward him.

I looked at the crowd.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, my voice trembling but clear. “I understand this service was organized to mourn me.”

Nobody spoke.

I turned toward my husband.

“But as you can see, I’m not dead.”

Jack shook his head repeatedly.

“This is impossible.”

“No,” I replied. “What’s impossible is that you believed you could kill your pregnant wife, collect fifty million dollars, and convince the world you were the grieving husband.”

A collective gasp swept through the cathedral.

Jack stared at me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I reached into my coat and removed a photograph.

It showed Jack standing beside me at the mountain lodge earlier that day, smiling as he held my hand.

I placed it on the lectern.

Then I looked directly at him.

“You took me to the cliff. You showed me the insurance policy. You told me exactly how much my death was worth to you.”

He began shaking his head.

“She fell,” he said loudly. “She slipped. I tried to save her!”

My father stepped forward.

“Then you should have no objection to answering the investigators’ questions.”

One of the officials approached Jack.

“Mr. Jack, we need to speak with you about the circumstances surrounding your wife’s disappearance, the insurance arrangements, and evidence recovered during our investigation.”

Jack looked around wildly.

“She’s lying! She’s been manipulated by her father!”

I felt the old instinct to defend him rise inside me.

Then I remembered the snow.

The fall.

His laughter.

And Grace, fighting for her life in an incubator while he stood here mourning a fortune he thought he had already earned.

I looked at him one last time.

“You told me the baby wouldn’t suffer for long.”

His face went completely still.

I continued.

“She’s alive, Jack. Your daughter is alive. And she will grow up knowing that the person who should have protected her tried to destroy us both.”

Vanessa began crying.

Not for me.

For herself.

She stepped away from Jack, shaking her head.

“You told me she was dead,” she whispered.

Jack rounded on her.

“Shut up!”

The officials intervened, separating them as the crowd erupted into shocked conversation.

I didn’t stay to watch the rest.

I had come to reveal the truth, not to make a spectacle of my pain.

My father guided me toward the doors.

Behind us, Jack called my name.

“Evelyn! Wait!”

I stopped briefly but did not turn around.

“Please,” he pleaded. “Let me explain.”

I closed my eyes.

There was nothing left he could say that would change what he had done.

“I listened to your explanation on the cliff,” I replied. “Now you can explain yourself to the authorities.”

Then I walked out of my own funeral.

Alive.

The Evidence He Couldn’t Bury

The investigation took months.

Jack was not convicted because I walked into a cathedral and accused him. The authorities had to establish what happened, examine the evidence, and follow the law.

My testimony was only one part of the case.

Investigators examined the insurance documents, financial records, communications, and information relating to the mountain trip. They scrutinized inconsistencies in Jack’s account and interviewed people who had seen him before and after the incident.

They also examined messages between Jack and Vanessa.

The recovered conversations showed that Jack had discussed my insurance coverage, the financial difficulties he was facing, and his plans for a future in which I would no longer be present.

Other evidence placed him at the overlook and contradicted parts of his original story.

My medical records documented injuries consistent with a severe fall. Rescue personnel described the location where I had been found and the circumstances of my recovery.

Jack’s lawyers challenged the evidence and questioned my recollection of the events. They argued that the storm had made the incident impossible to reconstruct with certainty.

But the investigators continued.

The insurance company suspended the claim pending the investigation, and the expected payout never reached Jack.

His creditors began demanding answers.

The business contacts who had once admired him stopped returning his calls. The friends who had defended him publicly began distancing themselves. The photographs of him crying at my memorial became reminders of a performance that had fooled almost everyone.

Vanessa initially claimed she knew nothing about the plan.

But when investigators confronted her with the messages, her story changed.

She admitted that Jack had told her he intended to collect the insurance money after my death. She claimed she thought he was exaggerating, though she could not explain why she had continued discussing their future together in such specific terms.

Her cooperation became part of the investigation.

Eventually, prosecutors brought criminal charges against Jack based on the evidence they had gathered.

The trial attracted intense public attention.

News outlets that had once described him as a devastated husband now reported on the allegations and the evidence presented in court.

Jack entered the courtroom wearing an expensive suit, his expression carefully controlled.

He pleaded not guilty.

For weeks, I sat through testimony about the worst day of my life.

I heard strangers discuss my fall as a series of measurements, injuries, photographs, and timelines. I heard lawyers debate what I had seen and how much I could remember.

Sometimes, I had to leave the courtroom to breathe.

My father always waited outside.

“You don’t have to prove your strength by enduring every second,” he reminded me.

“But I want to be there,” I told him. “I want him to see that I’m not afraid of him anymore.”

The day I testified, Jack finally looked directly at me.

For the first time in months, I saw something resembling fear in his eyes.

I told the court what happened at the cliff. I described the insurance policy, his words, and the moment he pushed me.

I didn’t exaggerate.

I didn’t shout.

I simply told the truth.

When his attorney asked why I had agreed to travel with him so close to my due date, I explained the promises he had made and the trust I had placed in him.

When asked whether I had any reason to believe he wanted me dead beforehand, I described the events as accurately as I could and left the conclusions to the evidence.

I was not there to convince the court that Jack was a monster.

I was there to explain what he had done.

After the evidence and arguments were complete, the jury deliberated.

When the verdict was read, I held my father’s hand.

Jack was found guilty of attempted murder and other related offenses established at trial.

The judge later imposed a substantial prison sentence under the applicable law.

I did not cheer.

I did not smile.

I simply closed my eyes and let out a breath I felt I had been holding since the moment I stood at the edge of that cliff.

Justice had not erased the trauma.

But it had stopped Jack from pretending that he had done nothing wrong.

The Daughter He Never Met

Grace came home from the hospital several weeks after the trial.

She was tiny, with dark hair and a determined little cry. The doctors warned me that she would need continued monitoring, but she was healthy enough to leave intensive care.

My father stood in the nursery holding her as if she were made of glass.

“Hello, little fighter,” he whispered.

Grace opened her eyes.

My father began to cry.

I had never seen him cry like that before.

“She has your eyes,” he said.

I smiled.

“And your stubbornness.”

He laughed through his tears.

“Poor child.”

For the first time in months, our home was filled with something other than fear, anger, and the constant pressure of the investigation.

I spent my days caring for Grace and attending therapy. I had nightmares about the cliff, and sudden gusts of winter wind could send me back to that moment without warning.

Recovery was not a straight line.

Some mornings, I felt strong enough to conquer the world. On others, I could barely get out of bed.

My father never told me to move on.

He never asked me to forgive Jack.

He simply helped me find the support I needed and reminded me that surviving was not the same as being healed.

Slowly, I began to reclaim my life.

I returned to the foundation work I had loved before the pregnancy. I helped establish a program that provided emergency housing and legal assistance to women facing financial coercion or domestic abuse.

I used my resources to support the program, but I made sure it was managed by qualified professionals who could help people without judgment.

I didn’t want my story to become a story about a billionaire’s daughter who had been rescued by her father.

I wanted it to be about a woman who survived an attempt to take everything from her and found a way to help others protect their own futures.

As for Vanessa, she faced the consequences of her own involvement as the legal process unfolded. I didn’t follow every detail of her life. I had learned that not every person who had hurt me deserved a permanent place in my thoughts.

Jack sent letters from prison.

The first was angry. He blamed Vanessa, the insurance company, and my father.

The second was full of excuses.

The third was an apology.

He wrote that he had been desperate. That his debts had become overwhelming. That he had felt trapped beneath the expectations surrounding my family’s wealth.

He said he had loved me once.

I read the letter, folded it carefully, and placed it in a drawer.

Perhaps he had loved me in his own way.

But love that ends with a pregnant woman being pushed off a cliff is not something I needed to understand or excuse.

I did not write back.

The Last Time I Saw Him

Two years later, I received notice about a legal matter requiring my attention. During that process, I was offered the opportunity to provide a statement concerning the impact of Jack’s crime.

I chose to do so.

I stood before the appropriate officials and spoke about the physical injuries, the psychological trauma, and the years of trust that had been destroyed in a single moment.

I also spoke about Grace.

She would grow up knowing the truth in an age-appropriate way. I would never use her father’s crime to burden her with hatred, but neither would I lie to her about the past.

She deserved honesty.

And she deserved to know that none of what happened was her fault.

When I finished my statement, I felt something loosen inside me.

For years, I had imagined that the perfect ending would involve Jack seeing my success and regretting every choice he had made.

But as I left the building, I realized I no longer needed him to regret anything.

His remorse was no longer the measure of my worth.

My safety did not depend on his approval.

My future did not depend on his promises.

And my happiness did not require him to suffer in exactly the way I had suffered.

I had wanted him to face the consequences of what he had done.

He had.

Now I wanted something else.

A life that belonged to me.

The Life He Thought He Had Stolen

On Grace’s third birthday, I took her to the garden behind my father’s home.

The sky was clear, and the trees were covered in fresh green leaves. Grace ran across the lawn carrying a yellow balloon, laughing as our dog chased her.

My father sat beside me on a bench.

“She has quite a lot of energy,” he said.

“She gets it from you.”

He gave me an offended look.

“I was a very calm child.”

“You once fired an entire management team before breakfast.”

“That was business.”

I laughed so hard that Grace came running back to ask what was funny.

I picked her up and kissed her cheek.

“Nothing, sweetheart. Mommy’s just happy.”

That evening, after Grace fell asleep, I stood by the nursery window and watched the lights of the city.

For a long time, I had believed my survival was a miracle.

In many ways, it was.

A rescue team had found me in the storm. Doctors had fought to save my daughter. My father had stood beside me when I was too weak to stand alone.

But survival was only the beginning.

The real miracle was that I had learned to live without allowing Jack’s cruelty to define every part of my future.

He had pushed me off a cliff because he believed my life was worth fifty million dollars.

He thought money could turn murder into an accident, grief into a performance, and a wife into an insurance payout.

He had mistaken my trust for weakness.

He had mistaken my love for permission.

And he had mistaken the silence of a woman fighting to survive for the silence of a woman who would never speak again.

But I had survived.

I had walked into my own funeral.

I had testified.

I had watched the legal system hold him accountable.

And I had raised our daughter in a home where love was never measured by how much someone was willing to sacrifice.

I looked down at Grace sleeping peacefully in her bed.

Then I whispered the promise I had made at the bottom of that frozen ravine.

“I’ll always protect you, sweetheart.”

Outside, the wind moved gently through the trees.

There was no cliff beneath my feet anymore.

No hand pushing me toward darkness.

No voice telling me that my life was worth more to someone dead than alive.

There was only the future.

And this time, it was mine to choose.