After selecting my burial site, I decided against returning to Los Angeles. I had no home there – my apartment was rented. 

My landlady had been kind to me. I didn’t want my death to cause her rental complications. 

Of course, I had no home here either. 

I planned to stay in a local hospital. 

Dying in a hospital wouldn’t inconvenience anyone. 

After my death, Lucas would need to travel from Los Angeles for my cremation, then bury my ashes in my chosen spot. 

After sharing my arrangements, Lucas refused to return to Los Angeles. 

He insisted on staying with me. 

Since I couldn’t force him to leave, I took him to a special place. 

It was an older neighborhood. 

Inside was a small playground. 

Many children played there. 

My attention fixed on a little girl about three years old. 

She was fearless, determined to slide down the slide alone. 

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An older woman hovered anxiously: “Lily, sweetheart, let Grandma help you up the 

ladder.” 

“I can do it myself, Grandma, watch me!” The little girl pushed her away. 

The woman relented, staying close to protect her. 

The girl played for a long time. 

“Lily, it’s time to go home. Grandpa and your parents will be back for dinner soon,” she coaxed gently. 

“But I want to play more,” the girl protested. 

“We’ll come back another day, okay?” 

“Okay,” the little girl nodded obediently, then added sweetly, “Grandma, carry me!” She smiled indulgently, lifting the child as they left. 

As they walked away, she seemed to glance back briefly. 

Then continued on. 

I turned to leave as well. 

Lucas asked beside me: “Who is she?” 

“My mother,” I answered. 

“You have a mother?” Lucas was shocked. 

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“I didn’t exactly emerge from thin air,” I replied dryly. 

“I mean…” Lucas fumbled. 

I didn’t blame Lucas for his surprise. 

In all these years, he’d never met any of my relatives. When I got sick, it was just me and him. 

My mother doesn’t remember me anymore. 

After my gambling addict father sold her, she endured unspeakable trauma that left her mentally unstable. 

When my father saw she’d lost her mind, he kicked her out. 

I still remember kneeling, begging my father not to send her away. He kicked me in the forehead, leaving me bloodied. 

I still have the scar, hidden beneath my bangs. 

Fortunately, after being thrown out, my mother met a good man who took her in and cared for her. 

Over time, her mental state improved. They built a small family together, but she never regained memories of her past life. 

That’s for the best. 

If I could, I’d forget too. 

“If you have a mother, why don’t you…” Lucas began, suddenly understanding. 

I knew he wanted to ask why I didn’t approach my mother for bone marrow 

donation. 

My mother doesn’t even remember me. 

I won’t disrupt her hard–won happiness. 

Compared to death, some lives are harder – like my mother’s past. 

Besides, my mother didn’t have other children. That little girl’s mother is her stepfather’s daughter from his previous marriage. 

I had only my mother as a potential match. 

If she wasn’t compatible, I’d have destroyed her life for nothing. 

It wasn’t worth it. 

Seeing her living so well was enough. 

“Sophie, you’re too kind–hearted,” Lucas said, not knowing the full story but sensing the truth. 

I smiled, explaining: “Maybe I’m just investing in my next life’s happiness.” “Fool,” Lucas chided gently. 

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We both knew there is no next life. One life is all we get. 

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