faeni

I did nothing with my entire life. Literally nothing. Then I died — not saving a cat from a tree heroically, not even struck by Truck-kun — but of a heart attack caused by a BL manga confession scene. Pitiful? Perhaps.

When I begged for a second chance, the gods listened. Or at least, they jeered at me. Instead of returning as a mighty sorcerer or a spoiled heiress, I found myself as a young woman with awful vision in some obscure nobleman's manor house.

My eyesight is so poor I can hardly recognize faces. I trip, blink, and consistently confuse people with chairs (and vice versa). But here's the kicker: I've been reborn as the young stepmother of a future villainess — a child who will grow up to be the "evil empress" in a bestselling romance novel that I used to detest.

And so, with only my half-working eyes, shreds of memory, and sheer obstinacy, I'm going to do something — anything — other than waste this life. Whether that is steering my evil stepdaughter, making it through treacherous noble schemes, or just learning how to walk straight without crashing into a wall.

I've got my chance now. And this time, I won't let it slide through my fuzzy fingers.

The Blind Stepmother Of The Villainess

Morning sunbeams leaked into my bedroom, lighting my face like a brusque slap from a godly hand. I cursed and tugged the blanket over my head, resolved to pretend this day wasn't happening.

A little whirlwind tore into my room. Charlotte, yelling like a party barker, flung herself onto my bed and started bouncing excitedly.

"Up! Up! Let's go have fun with Biscuit! She needs to exercise! You need to exercise!"

I opened one eye. "Exercise? What am I, a warhorse?"

She ignored me completely, already pulling on my sleeve with the grip of a small, determined raccoon.

Ten minutes after (several near-tumbles, a bruised toe, and one smashed vase), I was standing in the garden, pants on (hallelujah), leaning against my cane, Biscuit obediently at my feet, and Charlotte holding a ball aloft like a commander leading soldiers into war.

"Watch closely, Miss Alex!" Charlotte announced triumphantly. "This is fetch! You throw the ball! Biscuit returns it!

"Sounds easy enough," I grumbled. "Even I could—"

Just as I was getting to that point, Charlotte tossed the ball. It flew gracefully through the air… and right away crashed into a rosebush.

Biscuit cocked her head. I cocked my head. We both looked at Charlotte with shared alarm.

Charlotte laughed nervously. "Oops! Uh… she's shy today!"

Charlotte shifted her position as one would expect a professional archer to stand before going to war. She breathed in and threw the ball once more.

It travelled precisely two feet, ricocheted off the top of a garden gnome, and came to a pitiful halt at Biscuit's paws.

I almost gagged with laughter. "Was that… was that a throw? Or a suggestion, please?"

Charlotte's face scrunched up. "Miss Alex!! You do it then!"

Gladly," I laughed, snatching the ball out of her little hands.

With melodramatic flourish befitting a hero of a tragic poem, I wound my arm and threw the ball. It slipped.

A resplendent splash sounded through the courtyard. Biscuit barked once in shock, then immediately wandered over to lap at water on the edge as if nothing at all was amiss.

Charlotte landed on her back, laughing hysterically. I fell to my knees, cupping my scalding face in my hands.

A few more tries (all as disastrous) left us both prostrate on the lawn, laughing so hard I was sure I would never take a breath again. Biscuit was stretched out between us, contentedly chewing on a flower she had pilfered from the gnome's hat.

Charlotte at last had time to gasp out, "Miss Alex… we're so bad at this…!"

I swiped away a tear from the corner of my eye. "We are a terror to all sports. I hope the gods aren't looking, or they'll smite us for ineptitude."

She snorted and rolled onto me, her head against my arm.

"It's okay," she said drowsily. "We don't have to be good. We're together. And Biscuit is happy."

".Yes," I breathed, leaning over to smooth Biscuit's head. "We're together. And that's enough.

The Art of Fetch (A Disaster in Three Acts)