After Rebirth, I Chose My Stepmother Over My Don Father
The day Sofia died, I scattered her ashes into the sea myself.
In my last life, I called her my stepmother for thirteen years.
She pulled me from dead last at a school in the slums to the top ten in the whole city, gave me the first dress of my life, and taught me how to sit straight at the Moreno dinner table and never bow my head to anyone.
On the late nights when my father Leon got drunk and smashed his bottles, it was always her who closed my bedroom door first, then walked alone into the living room to face the man that love and power had already driven mad.
Seven days after she died of her illness, Leon finally lost his mind.
He charged into the sea off the old docks, screaming,
"Sofia, I was wrong! I'm coming down to be with you!"
I clung to him with everything I had, and in the struggle I fell into the freezing water myself.
When I opened my eyes again, I was five years old.
Sofia was crouched on the floor, tying my shoelaces.
Her fingers were warm, the pads still carrying the thin calluses left by years of holding a pen over the ledgers.
I threw my arms around her neck and buried my face in the crook of her shoulder.
"Mommy, this time I don't want anyone else. I only want you."