Chapter 1: Waking Up in the Past

When I came to, the first thing I saw was an old wooden beam stretched out above me, surrounded by faded plaster walls. My whole body felt stiff. I stared up for a moment, the details not quite clicking. Wait. Where am I? My gaze flickered from the ceiling to the corners, slow and uncertain, a strange fog clouding my mind. Then, a choked voice broke through the haze:

The musty scent of old wood filled the air, mixed with the faint aroma of last night’s rain, seeping in through the window cracks. I blinked, trying to gather my thoughts. The room felt unfamiliar, my heart pounding with a restless energy I couldn’t name. My skin prickled, as if my body knew something my mind didn’t.

"Mom, you’re finally awake!"

The voice was breathless, trembling with hope and fear. It sounded so young, so raw, it tugged at something deep inside me I hadn’t felt in years.

Immediately, two figures rushed over and hugged me tight. I sucked in a sharp breath, my heart lurching. Slowly, I lowered my head and saw them clearly—our eyes met, and I swear my heart skipped a beat.

Their faces were so familiar it hurt: the curve of a cheek, the freckles across a nose, the stubborn tilt of a chin. For a second, I wondered if I was dreaming, or maybe caught in that strange space between sleep and memory.

No way. Isn’t this the young version of my mom? And next to her, that’s... that’s my uncle!

My hands shook as I reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from my mom’s forehead. The sight was so impossible, so achingly real, I almost laughed. Or cried. Or both. My mind spun.

"You two..." Calling me Mom?

The words scraped out of my throat, rough as gravel. God, I sound ancient. My voice was hoarse, old, and weak, like it belonged to someone else.

I’ve time-traveled! And I’ve become my grandmother, Marlene Goodwin?!

A wave of dizziness slammed into me. The room spun, and I clung to the thin blanket, willing myself not to freak out. My heart thudded like crazy, the truth hitting me with the weight of a hundred family secrets.

I glanced at the calendar on the wall: August 1, 1997.

August 1, 1997. My heart skipped. The numbers stared back at me in faded red ink, circled in pen. That date was burned into our family’s history—a turning point I’d heard about a million times, but never lived.

Mom is only seventeen years old now…

Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, her eyes ringed with exhaustion. She looked so young, so vulnerable, but also stubborn as hell—the way I’d always pictured her as a teenager.

This year, Grandpa passed away, and the family lost its only income. Mom dropped out of school to support the family, missed the SATs, didn’t get a diploma, and that became her lifelong regret.

Her voice echoed in my mind—older, tired, tinged with disappointment. How many times had she told me about that year? How many times had I tuned her out, too wrapped up in my own drama to listen?

I quickly sorted out the timeline and looked at the young version of my mom in front of me.

My mind raced, piecing together family stories and moments I’d half-listened to at Thanksgiving dinners, or when Mom thought I was asleep. This was the crossroads, the moment everything changed.

Yesterday feels like a lifetime ago. Just yesterday, the two of us had a big fight. My grades for the first round of senior year exams weren’t great. Mom, in her anger, slapped me. I ran out of the house in rebellion, straight into a thunderstorm and a flash of lightning—and ended up here.

The memory hit sharp as glass—the sting of her hand, the crash of thunder, the wet grass under my sneakers. I remembered the taste of rain, the wild, electric sense that anything could happen.

Could it be that I’m already dead?

A cold shiver crept up my spine. Was this limbo? Some weird afterlife? I pressed a hand to my chest, felt my heart still thumping, steady and real.

"Mom, I’ve thought it through. I won’t go to school anymore. I’ll stay home and help on the farm, support Tyler."

My mom’s words snapped me out of my spiral.

Her voice was so full of resignation, it made my stomach knot. The weight of responsibility settled on her narrow shoulders, and she tried to sound grown up, even as her lips trembled. I sucked in a breath.

Thinking about how she always regretted not taking the SATs, I cleared my throat and said sternly:

I forced my voice to sound stronger, channeling every lecture she’d ever given me, every time she’d stood tall even when the world knocked her down.

"Absolutely not. Family matters aren’t your responsibility. You have to go to school."

Mom clearly didn’t expect me to say this. Her already red and swollen eyes grew misty again.

She blinked, caught off guard, her mouth opening and closing, searching for words. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she swiped it away fast, not wanting me to see.

She lowered her head. Blinked hard. Her fingers clenched so tight her knuckles went white.

"Your health isn’t good, you can’t do farm work. Dad passed away so suddenly, and we still have to survive."

Her voice was barely more than a whisper. I could feel the fear behind her words—the terror of not knowing how to keep the family afloat, of being too young and too alone.