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In my previous life, Michael Stone stood in front of three hundred wedding guests and announced, "You're not my daughter." I knelt at the gates of the Stone Residence, my face bloody from begging, pleading for seventy thousand dollars to save my mom. He tossed me an empty bank card and laughed, "Don't disgrace me." My mom pulled the plug on herself. I broke my leg, lost it, and spent three years shining shoes on the street. When he finally had a pang of conscience and came looking for me, I didn't need him anymore. Now, I'd been reborn to the day he threw me that empty card. He'd still say, "You're not my daughter." But this time, I'd answer him calmly, "Okay, Mr. Stone."