After my mom divorced my dad—who was always "too busy" to be home—life got tough. She adopted the "calm and collected" persona. Never fought for anything, never raised her voice. The neighbors all said she was a saint. So, I became her mouthpiece. The things she "couldn't" say, I said. The people she was "too polite" to offend, I cursed out. The neighbors all whispered that I was petty and rude, nothing like my saintly mother. Then one day, a local drunk tried to assault her. Mom was putting up a desperate fight. Without thinking, I grabbed a glass bottle and smashed it over his head, saving her. I ran to the stairwell to call for help, but Mom shoved me from behind. I tumbled down the stairs, my spine shattering against the concrete steps. Paralyzed from the neck down. It turned out her "desperate fight" was just foreplay. It turned out the drunk was her high school crush, the bad boy she never got over. They moved in together immediately. One afternoon, I woke up from a nap because the bed was shaking. I opened my eyes to see the drunk on top of me. I wanted to fight, but my body wouldn't move. In a panic, I screamed for Mom. But then I saw her peeking through the doorway. Her eyes weren't filled with horror, but with jealousy. Despair swallowed me whole. I bit my tongue off, but I didn't die. So I starved myself. That finally did it. Mom shook her head, sighing with fake pity. "I told you not to be so hot-tempered. You should be calm like a chrysanthemum. Now look, you've lost your life." When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day of the divorce. My parents asked me: "Who do you want to live with?" I chose Mom, of course. I have a debt to repay for her "great kindness." 1 "Nina, who do you choose?" Mom asked, calm and confident as always. Dad looked devastated, but a glimmer of unrealistic hope still shone in his eyes. He pleaded silently. I buried the hatred deep in my eyes. "I choose... actually, let me use the bathroom first. You guys discuss the other stuff!" I pulled out my cracked phone—Mom’s hand-me-down—and texted Dad: [Dad, I want to live with you, but I'm going to choose Mom. Please don't be sad. I'll come back to you soon. Delete this after reading.] I flushed the toilet and walked out. Dad looked like a new man. The despair was gone, replaced by a rosy glow of vitality. I never realized how much my choice in my past life had destroyed him. Mom shot him a look of disdain and started her guilt-tripping routine: "Guess I wasted my time. Can't wait to go meet your little mistress before the ink is even dry, huh?" 2 The "mistress" Mom referred to was Aunt Diane, Dad's childhood friend. She had pursued him once, but Dad was already in love with Mom. Dad, being the honest idiot he was, told Mom everything. Back then, Mom just laughed it off. Proud as a peacock, she wouldn't deign to be jealous of a "country bumpkin." Now that she wanted a divorce, she suddenly cared about Aunt Diane, painting Dad as morally bankrupt. But in my past life, it was this "country bumpkin" who brought me food and water after I was paralyzed. Dad argued back, face red, but Mom just crossed her arms and said coolly, "See? I hit a nerve. Why else would you react so strongly?" Dad was clumsy with words. Every time he tried to defend himself—"I haven't even spoken to her in years!"—Mom would cut him off with a breezy, "I don't believe you. Don't bother explaining." "I didn't do it!" Dad shouted again, but this time, his voice was firm. Because he knew his daughter believed him. 3 In my last life, Dad gave Mom the house and most of his savings because he was afraid I'd suffer. He left with almost nothing. Mom accepted it all calmly, as if she were doing him a favor. "He gave it willingly," she'd say. I suspect she had been badmouthing Dad to me for years, using the "evil stepmother" trope to scare me into choosing her, all to secure his assets. The irony is, I believed her lies, chose her, and walked straight into hell. "You want to eat? Make it yourself. Girls need to be independent. Go wash the dishes!" She'd push dirty plates at me—leftovers from her delicious stir-fry while I stared at my bowl of plain white rice. When I lived with Dad, he never let me touch dish soap, saying it would ruin my hands. "Just study," he'd say. With Mom, even adding an egg to my instant noodles was a crime. "I need that for breakfast tomorrow. Why are you so greedy?" She canceled my piano lessons immediately. "You have no talent. Why waste the teacher's time?" 4 "Nina, hurry up. Me or your dad?" Mom stared at me intensely. I didn't disappoint her. "I choose Mom." Mom smiled, a victory lap in her eyes. "Jack, she made her choice. Now let's talk assets." I almost laughed looking at the divorce agreement she drafted. It left Dad with nothing. This was my "saintly" mother. In my past life, she used me as a weapon. This life, I'm aiming that weapon right back at her. "Mom, if Dad gives us the house, where will he live? We can go to Grandma's, but he'll be homeless! He just lost me, now he loses his home? That's so sad!" Mom's face twisted. Her "thoughtful little jacket" was suddenly letting in a draft. She stammered, trying to maintain her persona. "Well... I didn't really want this dump, it's just closer to your school." I cut off her retreat. "Oh, Mom, Grandma's house is only a few minutes further by bus. It's fine." Mom's face went dark. "I... I'm doing this for you!" I smiled, showing all my teeth. "Don't worry, Mom! I have a conscience, just like you taught me. I wouldn't let Dad be homeless just to save five minutes on a bus ride!" Mom's face cycled through colors like a broken traffic light. 5 With no other choice, she glared at me and changed the agreement. Dad kept the house, but he had to pay her $60,000. They both signed. The divorce cooling-off period was over, so the paperwork went through fast. They got their divorce certificates. Mom let out a huge breath. She had been terrified Dad would back out. "Transfer the $60,000 to my account," Mom said, her "calm" facade cracking with greed. "Mom, what's the rush? Let's transfer the house title to Dad first." Mom frowned but went along with it. A few days later, the title transfer was done. "Now transfer the money!" Mom's patience was gone. "Didn't you lend your brother $80,000?" Dad said coldly. "You keep $60,000 of that debt. Transfer the remaining $20,000 to me. Here's my account number." This was the script Dad and I rehearsed. Mom's brain short-circuited. The math was simple: Assets were split. The $80,000 loan was a marital asset. Dad was owed half. Mom: ??? "Jack, what do you mean? You're not paying me, and I owe you $10,000? You tricked me?!" Her "calm" persona shattered into a screech. Dad looked innocent. "I didn't trick you. Just stating facts." "You know my brother used that money for a house! He can't pay it back now! How am I supposed to live?!" "How you live is none of my business. You knew he couldn't pay it back, so why did you lend it?" 6 Dad was a steelworker. Hard labor, long hours, living on-site. Mom called it "never being home." Years of sun and sweat made his skin rough and dark. Mom, pampered with skincare products paid for by him, looked young and fresh. The work was brutal, but the pay was good. Dad handed every paycheck to Mom. After expenses and mortgage, they had saved $80,000 in eight years. Then my uncle needed a house and a dowry. Grandma called, spun a sob story, and Mom—saint that she was—wired him the entire savings. When Dad found out, he nearly had a stroke. Mom just said, "Money is worldly. Helping my brother is a good deed." Dad literally coughed blood and passed out. When he woke up in the hospital, he realized Mom wasn't a partner. From then on, he stopped giving her his savings. Just a fixed allowance. Mom knew she messed up, but she refused to apologize. She just endured the budget cuts. Life was quiet until Mom met Steve.
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