Looking at my mother's corpse, my stepmother said that death cannot bring back life. Years later, I looked at my stepmother's son's corpse and said that death cannot bring back life.

My mom jumped off a building, and her blood splattered on my face.

My stepmom, heavily pregnant, collapsed into the pool of blood, sobbing, “Professor! I wronged you! I’ll return your husband to you! I’ll give him back to you!”

With tear-filled eyes, my dad helped her up. “You’re carrying my child. Please, don’t harm yourself!”

As I watched them embrace and cry, I suffered a heart attack and fell into my stepbrother’s arms.

My stepbrother, unsure how to comfort me, said, “The departed can’t return. You need to accept and find peace.”

I pressed my face against my stepbrother’s chest, hiding the hatred etched on my own.

Years later, as I looked at my former stepmom’s body, carrying my stepbrother’s child, I repeated the same words to him.

“The departed can’t return. Brother, you need to accept and find peace!”