Next life, Mom—live for yourself

For as long as I can remember, my mom is a fat, cowardly woman. She's capable of arguing with a vendor over a 50-cent discount in the wet market, and yet all she does is shield her head and cry whenever my dad beats her up. I don't like how embarrassing she is, so I refuse to let her attend my college acceptance celebration. But when I sort out Mom's personal effects, I find an old photo with yellowed edges. The woman in the photo can be seen mounting a scooter with tattoos weaving down her arm. There's a defiant, untamed look in her eyes. She's breathtakingly beautiful. Thanks to a car accident, I am transmigrated to a trade school from 20 years ago. The leader, who's being surrounded by her lackeys, presses a cigarette butt against the desk. She looks at me with a raised brow. "New student, huh? From now on, you're part of my gang. As long as you call me 'boss,' I'm willing to sacrifice everything for you." As I gaze at the leader's fearless expression, I feel my tears running down my cheeks instantly. Mom, please don't become a mother and a housewife in the future. I just want to see you continue living your life freely.