Chapter 4: Aunt Harper’s Secrets

Downstairs, I found Louie quietly working on a puzzle by the big bay window.

He sat cross-legged on a plush rug, sunlight streaming over his hair. He hummed softly as he fit pieces together, lost in his own little world. The sight tugged at something deep inside me.

Sunlight poured in, his long lashes casting shadows, making him look so sweet that my heart melted instantly.

I watched him for a moment, my chest aching. He was so small, so earnest, so deserving of love. I wanted to scoop him up and promise him everything would be okay.

I hurried over, startling him.

My footsteps were too loud on the hardwood floor. He looked up, eyes wide, as if he expected to be scolded. I slowed down, trying to smile.

"Hey, what are you playing? Mommy wants to play too."

I knelt beside him, forcing my voice to sound warm and inviting. I reached for a puzzle piece, hoping he’d let me join in.

Louie’s eyes widened. He stood up straight, like he was in trouble. "Mom," he said, barely above a whisper.

His voice was barely a whisper. He clutched his bunny to his chest, watching me warily. I tried to meet his gaze, to show him I wasn’t angry.

I pulled him in for a big kiss on his chubby cheek.

He froze, eyes huge, then touched his cheek as if he couldn’t believe what just happened. A slow, tentative smile spread across his face, and my heart nearly burst.

He touched his face, looking stunned. I felt a lump in my throat.

His fingers lingered on his cheek, as if he was trying to memorize the feeling. For a moment, I saw hope flicker in his eyes. It was enough to make me want to cry.

From his reaction, I could pretty much guess that the me from ten years later probably didn’t like this kid very much.

The thought made my stomach churn. I vowed then and there to do better, no matter what had happened before.

Luckily, Louie was still young and didn’t hold grudges.

He offered me a puzzle piece, his small hand trembling. I took it, smiling, and together we started to build the picture. Piece by piece, the tension melted away.

I played with him for a while, and soon he was happily sharing his puzzle pieces with me.

He started telling me about the picture on the box. Then he told me his favorite colors. He liked to make up stories about the animals in the puzzle. His sentences tumbled out in bursts, full of energy and wonder.

"Louie! Is a puzzle the only thing you have to play with?"

I glanced around the room, expecting to see toys scattered everywhere. Instead, the shelves were bare, and the only other toy was the bunny in his hand.

Kids his age should have a ton of toys.

When I was little, my room was a minefield of Legos and stuffed animals. I frowned, wondering what kind of mom I’d become.

Louie glanced at me nervously and said, "Mom said other toys were too noisy and would get mad at me."

His words hit me like a punch. He looked down, shoulders hunched, as if expecting to be scolded for even saying that much. My heart broke a little more.

Ouch.

I winced, feeling the weight of guilt settle over me. I reached out and squeezed his hand, promising myself I’d make it up to him.

Wow. Looks like the me from ten years later really was sick.

I tried to keep my face neutral, but inside, I was reeling. What kind of person had I become? I vowed to change, starting now.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

The sound echoed through the house, sharp and unexpected. Louie jumped, dropping a puzzle piece. I ruffled his hair and stood up, nerves jangling.

It was Harper.

I peeked through the window and saw her on the porch, mask dangling from one ear, sunglasses perched on top of her head. She looked different—older, more put together, but still unmistakably Harper.

When Harper walked in, I almost didn’t recognize her. Was this really my tomboyish childhood friend? No way.

She was wearing a tailored blazer over ripped jeans, her hair styled in big, glossy waves. Her makeup was flawless—winged eyeliner, bold lipstick. I barely recognized her, but the way she carried herself was pure Harper.

Not only had she grown her hair out, but it was styled in big waves, and her makeup was on point. Seriously, who was this?

I exaggeratedly widened my eyes. "Whoa, look at you! Who are you and what did you do with Harper?"

My voice was teasing, but there was an edge of awe. Harper just smirked, rolling her eyes like she’d heard it a thousand times before.

Harper rolled her eyes at me.

She tossed her purse onto the entryway table and kicked off her shoes, looking every bit the confident city girl. But when she glanced at me, her eyes softened, just a little.

Louie, on the other hand, seemed totally comfortable with her. He ran over and hugged her, calling her Aunt Harper.

He hugged her legs, and she bent down to ruffle his hair. "Hey, little man," she said, her voice gentle. He beamed up at her, and I felt a pang of jealousy—he was so at ease with her.

Harper patted his head and said to me, "Come on, let’s go upstairs and talk."

She jerked her thumb toward the staircase, her expression serious. I nodded, following her up the steps, heart pounding.

I hurried her back to the bedroom and, before she could say anything, quickly explained everything that had happened.

Words tumbled out in a rush. I told her everything—waking up in a strange house, the little boy calling me Mom, the missing memories, the wedding photo. Harper listened without interrupting, her brow furrowed in concern.

After listening, Harper frowned, looked me up and down, and asked the million-dollar question: "How do you know you time-traveled and didn’t just lose your memory?"

She crossed her arms, giving me that skeptical look she’d perfected in middle school. I hesitated, searching for the right words.

Uh…

I scratched my head, stalling for time. It was a fair question, one I didn’t have a good answer for.

"I remember my last meal before all this. Tomato beef stew at the campus dining hall. It was amazing."

I grinned, hoping she’d believe me. The memory was so vivid—the taste of tomatoes, the hum of student chatter, the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. It felt like yesterday.

"..."