Too Late, Mother: I Am Reborn

Too Late, Mother: I Am Reborn

Ben Nan

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My eighteenth birthday was supposed to be a fresh start, "Lottery Day" for the Life Path Augmentation (LPA) program. My toxic mother, Susan, was desperate for me to get the Support Role Optimization (SRO) LPA, reducing me to the compliant trophy wife I was in my first life before it all ended in tragedy. But then, my older sister, Jessica, whose insatiable greed for an "easy life" was legend, bizarrely elbowed her way forward, only to be ironically assigned the very SRO meant for me. As I stepped up, the machine hummed, then announced its shocking verdict: I received the High-Potential Innovator (HPI) LPA, the burden that had led to Jessica' s ruin in our previous timeline. My mother' s carefully constructed world imploded; Jessica' s triumphant smirk dissolved into furious disbelief. They immediately launched their counter-attack, determined to crush this "dangerous" potential. My Caltech scholarship, my lifeline to a real future, was brutally yanked away, deemed a distraction from my "duty" to support Jessica's floundering attempts at social climbing. Every penny I earned from grueling dead-end jobs was siphoned into their bottomless pit of familial exploitation. "Family comes first," my father would drone, a chilling echo of their manipulation from a past I desperately sought to rewrite. This was it – the same old cage, just with new bars. But they fundamentally misunderstood. Their betrayal only fueled the quiet revolution brewing within me. As their carefully laid plans crumbled around Jessica, I wasn't just enduring; I was processing, learning, plotting. And soon, the architect of their downfall wouldn' t just be a thought, but a force.

Introduction

My eighteenth birthday was supposed to be a fresh start, "Lottery Day" for the Life Path Augmentation (LPA) program.

My toxic mother, Susan, was desperate for me to get the Support Role Optimization (SRO) LPA, reducing me to the compliant trophy wife I was in my first life before it all ended in tragedy.

But then, my older sister, Jessica, whose insatiable greed for an "easy life" was legend, bizarrely elbowed her way forward, only to be ironically assigned the very SRO meant for me.

As I stepped up, the machine hummed, then announced its shocking verdict: I received the High-Potential Innovator (HPI) LPA, the burden that had led to Jessica' s ruin in our previous timeline.

My mother' s carefully constructed world imploded; Jessica' s triumphant smirk dissolved into furious disbelief.

They immediately launched their counter-attack, determined to crush this "dangerous" potential.

My Caltech scholarship, my lifeline to a real future, was brutally yanked away, deemed a distraction from my "duty" to support Jessica's floundering attempts at social climbing.

Every penny I earned from grueling dead-end jobs was siphoned into their bottomless pit of familial exploitation.

"Family comes first," my father would drone, a chilling echo of their manipulation from a past I desperately sought to rewrite.

This was it – the same old cage, just with new bars.

But they fundamentally misunderstood.

Their betrayal only fueled the quiet revolution brewing within me.

As their carefully laid plans crumbled around Jessica, I wasn't just enduring; I was processing, learning, plotting.

And soon, the architect of their downfall wouldn' t just be a thought, but a force.

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The Painter's Unending Haunt

The Painter's Unending Haunt

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5.0

My best friend, Noah, had my hands broken. He did it so I could never paint again. Then he told my wife, Olivia, that I had lost my mind and needed to be sent away for "rehabilitation." They sent me to what was essentially a prison, where I was starved, beaten, and eventually died alone on a cold floor. Now, I'm a ghost, haunting Noah's lavish party, a celebration of his stolen success. He' s exhibiting paintings that are eerily like my lost collection, while everyone praises him as an art mogul. Olivia, my wife, is there too, looking beautiful but with a shadow in her eyes. Noah's assistant, the one who helped break my hands, even lies to her face, saying I'm still "adjusting" at the center. The arrogance is breathtaking. Olivia stands in the house my stolen art paid for, listening to the lies of the man who killed me. He even fakes an injury to garner her sympathy. It was shocking when a call came through, revealing I' d been secretly flying every six weeks for a year to donate blood for Olivia's rare condition, saving her life. Then the news broke: the "rehabilitation" center I was sent to was a network of abusive prisons where patients died. No one heard my silent screams. My wife even refused to believe the truth, preferring to cling to Noah' s comforting lies, even as she tried to salvage my shredded art from the attic. But then my real parents, billionaires who had been searching for me for decades, showed up. And Noah, my murderer, embraced them, pretending to be their long-lost son. He wanted to steal my inheritance, too. "Mom? Dad?" he said, holding out the locket my birth mother gave me. My wife's refusal of Noah's marriage proposal was a small flicker of hope, soon extinguished by his manipulative feigned heart attack. But then the funeral home called, asking Olivia to pick up my remains. My ashes scattered on the floor after Noah fumbled the urn, and my mother-in-law suddenly revealed I' d donated my kidney to Olivia. That was the moment. She called 911, reporting a murder. My murder.

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