Pick: Rich Stepdad or Poor Grandpa?

After my father died, my mother remarried and took my younger sister and me with her. But her new husband had one condition—she could only bring one child.

From people who used to hang around my dad, I later learned that my grandfather was actually a wealthy antique collector.

My sister clung to him for her own future, refusing to let go. But in his eyes, her only job was to get straight A's; everything else—her clothes, her meals, her allowance—was kept to the bare minimum.

I went with my stepfather instead. His business took off, and we eventually moved into a huge mansion. He even set me up with an engagement to the heir of a powerful, wealthy family.

My sister was eaten up with jealousy. One day, she doused me in gasoline and dragged us both back in time to that day we had to choose our futures.

This time, she lunged for my stepfather's hand and held on tight. "I want to stay with Mom and Dad," she announced.

I didn't miss a beat. I immediately ducked behind my grandfather.

'Fine, Phoebe. You're the one who chose a life as a bargaining chip. Don't blame me for it. You can have it.'

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.