Chapter 1: The Secret That Binds Us

Ethan Shaw and I were both given a second chance at life at the same time.

The words pressed on me, a secret I couldn’t even whisper in the cool quiet of my tiny Ohio bedroom. Sometimes, lying awake staring at the popcorn ceiling, I'd replay the moment our stories diverged and then, impossibly, realigned. The old box fan in the window rattled, blowing in the smell of rain and cut grass, and I wondered if fate was real or just a trick of memory. I suppose some people might call that fate. Or maybe just the sort of wild luck only seen in late-night movies on cable, the ones you only half-watch, nestled under a blanket while a storm taps at the window.

In my previous life, I used to be his stepmom. I worked tirelessly to support his education, watched him steadily rise, and eventually saw him reach the top as a federal judge.

I still remember standing in the faded kitchen, coffee mug in hand, listening to the local NPR affiliate crackle with news of Judge Ethan Shaw's latest ruling. I’d seen him grow from a stubborn, scrappy kid into someone whose words shaped people's futures. Sometimes, I'd catch a glimpse of his name in the paper and feel a bittersweet pride, like a mom seeing her kid's first homerun all over again. It never stopped stinging, though, knowing I was just the woman in the background of his story.

This time, when the Shaw family came to propose, Ethan refused before anything could happen.

“Dad, please. Don’t marry her. I don’t want this.”

The plea in his voice wasn't what you'd expect from a boy his age. He sounded older, tired, as if he were carrying the weight of more than just childhood worries. His words hung in the air, sharp as the slap of a screen door on a humid summer night.

My heart was filled with immense disappointment.

My fingers went numb around the hem of my dress, and for a second, I couldn’t remember how to breathe.

I felt it like a stone in my chest. In my last life, I'd convinced myself we'd shared something real—a makeshift family built from the scattered pieces of loss. But now, hearing that, it was like finding out the secret handshake you practiced alone was never real to begin with.

So, the mother-son bond I thought we had in my previous life was just my wishful thinking.

Fine, then. If I didn’t have to raise a child, maybe I could finally enjoy some peace and quiet.

It was a cold comfort, like that first sip of black coffee in the morning—bitter, but at least it told the truth. Maybe this time I could spend a Saturday sleeping in, not worrying about school lunches or chasing down missing science fair projects. The world outside the window seemed to sigh with relief, too.

Later, I accepted someone else’s marriage proposal.

It wasn’t love, not really. More like a quiet agreement, the way two neighbors might nod across a fence, knowing they’d mow each other's lawns if it came down to it. The relief on my parents’ faces said enough—they just wanted me to be settled, to have someone’s name beside mine on the mailbox.

Ethan, eyes red and his thin frame blocking the path to the church, said:

“Rachel, why do you always want to marry someone else?”

His voice cracked, just loud enough to make the florist arranging the altar glance over. I could feel the tremor in his hands, the way he set his jaw like a kid trying not to cry after scraping his knee on the blacktop.

“Can’t you look at me instead?”

The faint scent of lilies and old hymnals hung in the air as Ethan spoke.

His question hung there, raw and impossible, and for a second, I thought the whole church might shatter from the weight of it.