DITCHING MY "ELITE" OXFORD PROFESSOR MOTHER TO FOLLOW MY "LOW-CLASS" STREAMER DAD: A REBIRTH

My mother is an Oxford Professor, a woman who wears her intellectualism like a suit of armor and views the "stink of money" as a personal affront. To her, the greatest regret of her life was marrying my father—a man who became a multi-millionaire through loud, high-energy sales livestreams.

"Vulgar, materialistic, and utterly unbearable," she sneered before the divorce.

In my past life, I was blinded by her "refined" aura and chose to stay with her. The result? Buying a luxury textbook was labeled "wasteful," wanting a Sunday roast with friends earned me a slap across the face, and even asking for decent period products was met with a lecture: "You’re just like your father—trying to solve everything with cash. You’re a disappointment."

When my uncle’s gambling debts piled up, she planned to "marry me off" to a reclusive, 50-year-old bachelor in the rainy moors of Yorkshire just for the dowry. She simply sipped her Earl Grey and said: "It is a lady’s duty to sacrifice for family. Don't be selfish like your father."

I died falling into a ravine while escaping that hell. Now, I’ve woken up back at the moment of their divorce.



"It’s just a bit of commission, isn't it?" my mother mocked, her voice dripping with academic superiority. "My brother needed startup capital; what is £500,000 to a man who screams 'Hello guys' at a camera all night? Do you even understand the concept of intellectual integrity?"

My father gripped his cracked iPhone—the one he used until 3 AM to sell out his inventory. His knuckles were white. "Fine. But that money was for our daughter’s tuition. Give it back."

Mother looked at him as if he were a stain on her rug. Then they both looked at me. "Olivia, you’re old enough. Choose."

In my last life, I saw her as "composed" and "intellectual." Now, I see the truth: my father’s "vulgarity" was just the exhaustion of a man being bled dry by her family’s greed. I didn't hesitate. I grabbed my father’s arm.

"I’m going with Dad."

Mother’s lip curled in a cold, elitist smirk. "Blood will tell, I suppose. You were always too shallow to appreciate the richness of the mind."

I smiled back. "Since you despise 'filthy lucre' so much, Mother, I’m sure you won't mind returning that £500,000. After all, your integrity is priceless, isn't it?"

Her face froze. As she packed her vintage Tweed coats and ancient manuscripts to leave, I knew one thing: I might be "losing myself to materialism," but I’d rather be rich and free than a "refined" sacrifice for her ego.

Part 1: The New Era of the "Materialistic" Duo

After the divorce, the atmosphere in our London penthouse shifted. The suffocating silence of "intellectualism" was replaced by the frantic, energetic hum of Dad’s livestreaming business.

My mother, Eleanor, had moved into a cramped, drafty flat in a neglected corner of North London, taking only her first-edition books and her "unmatched dignity." Within a week, Dad’s lawyer had successfully frozen the joint accounts. The £500,000 she had "gifted" to my Uncle Arthur for his failed "Literary Tea House" became a legal battleground.

"Let her keep the books, Olivia," Dad said, rubbing his tired eyes. "But I won’t let them steal your future."

I didn’t just stay by Dad’s side; I became his strategist. I realized that while Dad had the charisma, he lacked the "aesthetic" that modern British audiences craved. I rebranded him. No more neon lights and screaming "Hello guys!"

We transitioned to "The Working Class Gent." We focused on high-quality British manufacturing—heritage wools, sturdy boots, and artisan kitchenware. I filmed him in the soft light of golden hour, telling stories of his days as a struggling laborer while he showcased products that actually lasted.

Within six months, Dad wasn’t just a "streamer." He was a cultural icon of the "Self-Made Brit." Our revenue tripled. For the first time, Dad looked healthy. The gray in his hair seemed distinguished rather than exhausted.

Part 2: The Cracks in the Ivory Tower

While we climbed, Eleanor was sinking.

Without Dad’s "vulgar" money to pay for her £2,000-a-month skincare, her tailored silk shirts, and the private gardener for her "meditation space," her life began to fray. Uncle Arthur, a man who couldn't manage a lemonade stand, was now a constant parasite. He had lost the £500,000 in a month on bad "cultural investments" (mostly high-stakes poker disguised as networking).

He moved into Eleanor’s small flat with his pregnant wife.

One evening, I received a frantic call from Eleanor. "Olivia," she said, her voice trembling but still holding that patronizing edge. "I require you to talk to your father. Arthur needs a small bridge loan. It’s a matter of family honor. Surely, even a man of his... tastes... understands the concept of a safety net."

"Family honor, Mother?" I replied, sitting in my office overlooking the Shard. "I thought money was a 'base desire' that corrupted the soul. Isn't living in poverty the ultimate 'intellectual' experience?"

"Don't be precocious," she snapped. "I am your mother."

"In my last life, you were a mother who watched me be sold to a stranger to pay for this same man’s mistakes," I whispered, though she didn't understand the 'last life' part. "The answer is no. Enjoy your rich spiritual world."

I hung up.

Part 3: The Gala of Reckoning

A year later, the British Media Awards were held at the Savoy. Dad was nominated for "Digital Entrepreneur of the Year."

As fate—or perhaps my own careful planning—would have it, Eleanor was there too. She had been invited as a guest of a minor academic publisher.

She looked... haggard. Her hair, once perfectly coiffed, was thin. Her "classic" tweed suit was frayed at the cuffs. She was standing by the buffet, surreptitiously putting finger sandwiches into her clutch bag. Uncle Arthur had officially been declared bankrupt, and Eleanor’s salary was being garnished to pay back the "gifted" money Dad’s lawyers had proven was actually stolen marital assets.

When our eyes met, she tried to straighten her spine. "Look at you," she sneered, looking at my bespoke Vivienne Westwood gown. "A walking billboard for capitalism. I suppose you’re happy now, surrounded by this... noise."

"I am happy, Mother," I said, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. "I’m graduating from the London School of Economics next month. Top of my class. And I didn't have to skip meals or endure a slap to the face to pay for my tuition."

Just then, the host announced Dad’s name. The room erupted in applause.

"Julian Thorne!" the announcer boomed. "A man who redefined British retail and used his platform to donate £2 million to youth vocational training."

Eleanor’s face turned a ghostly shade of white. The man she called "low-class" was being celebrated by the very "elite" she so desperately wanted to impress.

"You could have been part of this, Eleanor," Dad said, stepping up to our table before going on stage. He looked at her with pity, not anger. "But you were so busy looking down on the world that you didn't realize you were the one at the bottom."

Part 4: The Final Settlement

The "happy ending" didn't involve a grand reconciliation. In the real world, and especially in this life, some bridges are meant to stay burnt.

Eleanor eventually lost her tenure at the university due to a scandal involving Arthur trying to use her credentials to scam students. She ended up working as a part-time librarian in a remote village in the north—a place with plenty of "spiritual richness" and absolutely no central heating.

As for me and Dad, we thrived.

I remember a quiet evening on the balcony of our home. The London skyline was shimmering. "Are you okay, Liv?" Dad asked. "Sometimes you look at me like you're seeing a ghost."

"I'm better than okay, Dad," I said, leaning my head on his shoulder. "I finally chose the right side of history."

In my previous life, I died in the cold, a victim of someone else’s "honor." In this life, I lived in the warmth of my own making. I had the money, the power, and the family I deserved.

If being "materialistic" meant having the agency to say "no" to abusers and "yes" to my own dreams, then I was the most materialistic girl in London—and I loved every second of it.

The end.

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