After Mom remarried, my younger brother Miles Brooks found out from Dad’s belongings that Grandpa came from a prominent political-military family. Dreaming of becoming a member of high society, he chose to follow Grandpa. But instead of the glamorous life he envisioned, Grandpa made him work the fields, herd sheep, practice painting, and study hard, never letting him appear in public. Meanwhile, I stayed at Brooks Manor with our stepdad, Steven Hollister, becoming his trusted right-hand man and stepping into the world of the elite. Miles only realized his mistake after finishing his SATs, when he learned that I was leaving for Paris with Evelyn Hathaway, the “princess” of the social elite, and that we were planning to marry upon returning. In a fit of rage, he killed me. And then, we both woke up, back at the moment of choice—Grandpa or Mom. This time, Miles hid behind Mom, declaring, “I’m not going with Grandpa. My dad is right here.” I clung to Grandpa’s coat tightly. I had enough of being someone’s lapdog, ordered around like a servant. Content 0
When Dad passed away, he left behind two sons: my younger brother, Miles, and me, Levi Brooks. Mom quickly remarried, devoting all her energy to our stepdad Steven and the unborn child she was carrying. It was then that Grandpa—whom we’d never met—showed up. He wanted to take both of us under his care. Mom, furious, said, “When I married your son, you didn’t pay a penny for our wedding. I’ve never even seen you before! And now you want to take both of my boys away?” “These are my grandchildren too,” Grandpa replied calmly. “Even though you’ve remarried, I can’t just let them go. If you insist I only take one, let’s ask the boys what they want.” Before she could say another word, Miles grabbed Steven’s hand and said sweetly, “Dad, you look tired. Let me make you some tea.” He stood behind Steven, full of admiration, then chirped, “Dad,” his voice bright and tender. He promised to only recognize Steven as his father from then on. Mom was stunned. Miles had been adamantly against Mom’s remarriage, leaving her stressed as she tried to juggle her grieving son, a demanding new husband, and her pregnancy. And now? Miles had suddenly decided to embrace Steven wholeheartedly, even promising to change his last name to Hollister the next day. Mom, who had always favored Miles, was delighted that he chose to stay. Miles clung to Steven and loudly instructed me, “Levi, you’d better take good care of Grandpa!” As I packed my things and left with Grandpa, Miles mocked me openly. “This time, it’s your turn to suffer. Go on and enjoy digging dirt in the fields!” 0
I knew why he was so smug. In our past life, Miles found a medal of valor and Dad’s farewell letter among Dad’s belongings. The letter revealed that Grandpa came from a prominent political-military family. Hoping for a better life—and tired of feeling like an outsider in Steven’s household—Miles eagerly chose to go with Grandpa. But when he got to Grandpa’s home, he was stunned. Grandpa lived in a small house on the edge of Ashworth Hamlet, surrounded by deep woods and far from the conveniences of city life. His income came from farming and gathering herbs in the mountains. If the harvest wasn’t good or the buyers didn’t come, there was no money. Miles quickly learned that Grandpa was strict. He had to wake up at dawn, eat breakfast, and either walk or take the bus to a public school. After school, there was no time to rest. Grandpa made him finish all his schoolwork before overseeing his physical training. Weekends weren’t for relaxation either; Miles had to help collect herbs in the mountains. There were no luxuries, no entertainment. Miles called his life a nightmare. He longed for the comforts I enjoyed: a grand estate with staff to cater to every need, designer clothes, and private schools where he could network with the children of CEOs and politicians. While Miles wore homespun clothes Grandpa had tailored for him, I was out shopping with Steven’s black card, wearing the latest fashion, and receiving boxes of luxury watches delivered to the door. While he drank bitter herbal teas Grandpa brewed for his acne, I underwent orthodontics and worked with a personal trainer to sculpt my body under Steven’s supervision. He claimed he was a forgotten son of the Brooks family, while I shone brightly in the public eye. At just 16, I had already gained recognition among the elite, with influential families eager to form alliances with ours. Following Steven’s guidance, I presented myself as the perfect young gentleman at every major event. I was his pride, the face of the family, and to the outside world, the Brooks’ golden boy. Miles, on the other hand, fell for Evelyn Hathaway, the darling of high society, and begged Mom to introduce him. She refused. Enraged, he protested, “I’m a Brooks too. Why can’t I?” Steven scoffed and said coldly, “Look at yourself. Following your grandfather around, breaking your back in the dirt. You don’t know finance, can’t speak fluent English, don’t even know how to swing a golf club. What qualifications do you have?” Grandpa dragged him back to the Hamlet, telling him to focus on his SATs and forbidding him from returning until his results were out. Miles once tried to use Dad’s medal to confront Grandpa, only for Grandpa to chuckle and say he’d picked it up at a flea market. “Put your energy into something productive,” he told him. While Miles toiled away in Ashworth Hamlet, I performed a piano solo at my coming-of-age celebration. Under Steven’s tutelage, I played with precision and grace, my fingers dancing effortlessly across the keys. When I rose to bow, the dazzling crystal chandelier above lit up the room and the hearts of everyone watching. Rumors spread: “The Brooks have Levi, and Evelyn Hathaway is the jewel of high society.” Miles came back with his SAT results, eager to share his success, only to find out about my engagement to Evelyn and our plans to study abroad together. At that moment, Steven and Mr. Hathaway were discussing our future plans. Miles approached Mr. Hathaway, who greeted him kindly. But as Miles walked away, he overheard Mr. Hathaway sigh, “So your ex-wife brought two sons. One turned out well, but the other… well, let’s just say Levi is polished, composed, and impeccable. That other one? He reeks of poverty.” Miles snapped. He stormed into my room, hands around my neck, screaming, “Die! Die!” I fought back, hitting him over the head with a heavy object. And just like that, we both died on our 18th birthday. When I opened my eyes, I was back at the fork in the road: Grandpa or Mom. This time, Miles clung to Mom and declared smugly, “It’s your turn to rot in the countryside. Go ahead, Levi. Enjoy your life as a rural nobody.” 0
Life with Grandpa wasn’t rich or comfortable, not by any stretch. Mom had never been close with Dad by the end of their marriage. She didn’t think she owed Grandpa anything, let alone support for my care. Even the child support she received? Not a penny of it went to us. The only time she ever came around was during the summer or winter holidays to pick up Miles for a visit. Even then, it felt like she just wanted to check a box, putting on a show for appearances. Frankly, Mom hadn’t treated Dad well when he was alive either. She often complained about him not earning enough, and judging by the timing of her pregnancy, it was clear she’d been with Steven before Dad passed. Grandpa gave me my own room, modestly furnished. Apart from the essentials, there was only a wooden desk neatly arranged with painting tools—brush, paint, and canvas. One afternoon, Grandpa took me to see the fields. It was the middle of summer, hot and sticky. The ground was dry and cracked under the sun. “Remember,” Grandma Martha said as she watered the crops, “this is the path you chose. You can’t back out now.” Grandpa clearly thought I wouldn’t last here after being spoiled at Brooks Manor. In our previous lives, Miles hadn’t lasted long. He called Mom begging to come home, but she refused. After all, in her mind, Grandpa’s home was supposed to be far more prestigious than Steven’s—enough to elevate Miles to the top of society. At the very least, it could maintain her affluent image. I picked up a watering can and joined Grandpa. “I don’t regret it,” I said. “I like it here. It feels alive.” Grandpa paused, caught off guard. After a moment, he murmured, “You’re nothing like your father.” “What was Dad like when he was young?” I asked, curious about the man behind my faint memories of quiet sorrow. Grandpa’s face darkened. He didn’t answer and instead said, “If you’re staying with me, you’ll follow my rules. I’m strict and have little patience. Now go get some rest.” That night, I fell asleep listening to the sound of frogs and cicadas outside my window. 0
The books on my desk towered over me like mountains. Just looking at them made me want to run. Even after two lifetimes, I’d never really learned the basics. Studying and practicing painting didn’t have the instant gratification of socializing or making connections. Public school was no private tutor. I had to rely on my own grit to catch up. I struggled through it all—homework, reading, painting—but Grandpa never let me off the hook. He sat beside me, refusing to sleep until I finished. If I nodded off, he would clear his throat, jolting me awake. “Sorry! I’ll fix it right away,” I’d blurt out, startled. My body reacted faster than my brain, conditioned by years of reprimands. Grandpa looked puzzled. “What’s wrong? I’m not going to hit you. Did someone use to hit you?” I nodded. “Yeah. I got hit a lot.” Grandpa sighed deeply. “Maybe you should call it a night.” I shook my head. “No! If I take a break every time it gets hard, I’ll never catch up. My painting skills will never improve. I don’t believe I can’t do this.” Grandpa studied me in silence before finally saying, “I’ll go deal with those noisy cicadas outside. They’re bothering you.” Even though I was bad at school, Grandpa stuck with me, helping me correct every mistake. The clothes I wore weren’t designer, but he asked the local seamstress to tailor them. The fabric was soft and comfortable, even if it wasn’t flashy. Grandpa didn’t say much, but I could tell he cared. He wished Mom would visit me. After two lifetimes, I no longer expected anything from her. When she did visit, it was only to take photos for her social media, pretending to be a doting mother. Her eyes were always filled with disdain, like she didn’t want to be there. One evening, music floated in from outside. My hands instinctively moved as if to play along. Grandpa stepped in front of me protectively. We went outside to find Miles standing there, playing the violin like a proud, elegant crane. When he finished, his eyes were filled with pride and scorn. Steven and Mom appeared next. Her belly was round, her face glowing as she alternated between gazing lovingly at her unborn child and Miles. But when her eyes fell on me, they were distant, cold. “Uncle,” she said, pretending to notice us. “I didn’t see you there.” Steven, oblivious to everything but himself, said, “Miles, you should’ve played it like this. Let me show you. Levi, Uncle, you can listen too.” Miles tugged at Steven’s sleeve. “Dad, let’s go home. Mom said you’re her first music teacher. Help me perfect my technique.” I almost laughed out loud. First music teacher? More like a man blinded by lust and greed. Apparently, their performances at home weren’t enough—they had to stage a show here too. After sandwiching Mom between them, Miles turned to me. “Levi, can we talk for a minute?” I knew what he was up to. “You saw that medal, didn’t you?” Miles sneered. “It’s fake. Grandpa’s just a country bumpkin.” “Oh, by the way,” he added, smugly displaying a luxury watch, “did you get an invitation from the Marks family?” “No? Oh, I forgot—you’re stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. You’ve been erased from the Lexington social scene. Beg me, and I might let you tag along. But you’d embarrass yourself there.” He waited, hoping to see me angry, regretful, or ashamed. Instead, I asked, “How long has it been since you’ve had food that tastes like something?” That wiped the smug grin off his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, hick.” He hurried into the car, almost running away. Back at the house, Grandpa awkwardly brought out a cake. “It’s your birthday. Have some cake,” he said. “I don’t know how you used to celebrate at Brooks Manor.” It had been so long since I’d had a birthday. The sweetness of the frosting melted in my mouth, filling me with warmth. Music might require talent, but looks determined fame. Steven firmly believed that with the right face, you could go anywhere. I developed crippling anxiety over my appearance during puberty. Even water retention could earn me a punishment. When hunger kept me up at night, I’d sneak to the fridge. If Steven caught me, he’d make me throw up. Eventually, my stomach learned to reject anything over a certain limit. Steven would dress me in custom suits for performances, and I’d stuff myself with protein powder to fill them out, wrecking my body in the process. When I complained to Mom, she’d only say, “Steven does this for your own good.” I wasn’t a son to them—I was a polished, obedient product. When my little brother Dylan was born, Steven didn’t bother hiding his true colors. “Everything we do is for Dylan. Can’t you be better for his sake? There’s no place for you in this family if you aren’t.” Mom agreed wholeheartedly. “Dylan is our hope. You need to marry someone powerful to help him succeed.” Steven’s wandering eye never stopped, even after Dylan’s birth. Mom wanted to use me to reel him back in.
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