Pick: Rich Stepdad or Poor Grandpa?

My mother looked at my sister and me with visible unease and said, "Rachel, Phoebe… which of you wants to come with me? The other will stay behind and live with Grandpa."

Her gaze lingered on me before shifting, full of worry, to my sister.

My sister had always been closer to her. Naturally, Mother hoped she would choose to go with her.

Under that expectant gaze, Phoebe took the initiative. She seized our stepfather's hand and declared, "Mom, Dad, I want to be with you!"

I, however, ran behind my grandfather and clutched his calloused hand.

Across from me, Phoebe curled her lips into a mocking smile.

I knew then—she must have been reborn, too.

In our previous life, after Father died, we had faced this same choice. Phoebe had overheard at the funeral that Grandpa was a wealthy antique collector, so she chose him without hesitation.

Before leaving, she even raised her chin proudly and sneered at me, "Soon I'll be enjoying life with Grandpa. As for you, just wait—you'll be stuck babysitting for our stepdad like some lowly servant."

But when she arrived at Grandpa's, what she saw was nothing like the grand manor she'd imagined.

There was only a brick house he had built himself, a yard full of dirt, and an old, battered tricycle.

As for the antique jewelry she dreamed of—no matter how much she rummaged, she couldn't find a single piece.

When she confronted Grandpa, he scolded her harshly, "Who told you I collect antiques? At your age, the only thing you should be doing is studying."

While other children spent their summers playing in the fields, she was forced to pore over obscure, difficult books.

She longed to dress beautifully, but her coarse linen clothes had to be patched up year after year.

Grandpa simply farmed his land and occasionally played cards with the old men in the village. The money he gave her barely covered meals.

Meanwhile, our stepfather's business thrived. We moved from a flat to a commercial apartment, then from there into a villa.

Soon, the Morris family name carried real weight.

I wore elegant gowns, my makeup flawless, attending high-society parties at my stepfather's side.

Everywhere we went, people praised my grace and refinement, saying it was clear I came from a well-bred household.

I studied at an elite academy, always chauffeured to school in luxury cars.

When Phoebe came to stay with us during winter break, she arrived in a faded school uniform.

My little brother clicked his tongue, burying his face in Mother's arms.

"Who is she? She smells so bad!"

At the dinner table, Stepdad discussed with me which galas we would attend the following week, which etiquette classes I should take next, and instructed Mother to buy me more fine dresses.

Phoebe tried to join the conversation but couldn't find a place to speak.

Frustrated, she burst into tears.

"I should be the Morris family's daughter too! Why does she get everything, and I have nothing?!"

Stepdad frowned at Mother.

"Why did you soften your heart and bring her here? We're discussing serious matters here. Why is she interrupting?"

Phoebe thought Mother would defend her. To her shock, Mother only sighed.

"If it weren't for fear of gossip, I never would've acknowledged her. Honestly, children raised in the countryside always turn out sharp-tongued and ungrateful."

That night, Phoebe smashed countless things in her rage. Our stepdad refused to tolerate her any longer.

In the end, it was Grandpa—braving the heavy rain on his rickety tricycle—who came to take her back.