Chapter 2: Maple Heights, Rewound

Right now, friends and relatives were all congratulating me. My daughter, Natalie, had been accepted into the best high school in the state, and I was throwing a celebration dinner for her today.

The scent of roast chicken and cornbread filled the house, laughter echoing against the old maple cabinets in our dining room. The Parker and Morgan sides of the family milled around, balancing paper plates and sweet tea. Uncle Jimmy balanced a plate of deviled eggs on his lap, and Aunt Carla kept waving her phone for a group selfie. Their talk bubbled with pride over Natalie’s achievement. Every so often, someone would pat me on the shoulder or wink, tossing out a, "Way to raise a star, Lisa!"

During the meal, everyone was chatting and laughing, praising Natalie and occasionally complimenting me on how well I’d raised her.

People clinked their glasses together, and the air was thick with the clatter of silverware and the buzz of conversation. A few of my cousins took pictures on their phones, to be posted on Facebook with #ProudMom in the caption. It was the sort of evening I used to daydream about on lonely nights.

Natalie wore the new sundress I’d bought her, but she tugged at the straps like they were shackles. The corners of her mouth turned down, and she shot me a sideways look full of disdain.

She shifted in her seat, fussing with the dress as if it were made of burlap. She stared at me, her jaw clenched, as if the air between us was thick with things she dared not say aloud.

She muttered under her breath:

"You’re useless yourself, so you just rely on me to feel proud. If I stopped studying, what would you even have to brag about?"

Her words fell like cold rain. I caught them, even though no one else did. My hand trembled around the glass, but I forced a smile, my cheeks burning.

"Just wait, next time I’ll deliberately flunk the exams. Let’s see how Dad deals with you then."

Her words echoed in my ears, leaving me stunned.

I tried to steady my breathing, fingers tightening around my glass of sweet tea. For a second, the world blurred—her voice overlaying the memory of tires screeching, the pain of impact, and the weight of betrayal from my former life.

Looking at Natalie’s smug face, I couldn’t help but remember the moment I was hit by a car in my previous life.

The image was sharp: the streetlights above, her coldness, the sound of her voice telling her father not to save me. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was memory, as real as the clatter of forks in this room.

A wave of hatred surged up from deep inside me.

My husband’s younger sister, sitting next to me, noticed I was distracted and spoke up:

She leaned over, her perfume a little too strong, and tapped my arm. "Lisa, high school is a crucial time. Don’t drop the ball now, Lisa. Natalie’s our ticket to the Ivy League. For the next three years, you must be there for Natalie and help her study."

Before I could answer, Natalie cut her aunt off, clearly annoyed:

"Mind your own business. I don’t want her as my study buddy. I want to live at school. Who wants to be stuck with her every day?"

Natalie’s voice was sharp, loud enough for everyone to hear. A couple of aunts stopped chewing mid-bite, glancing from her to me with wide eyes.

Her aunt shot her a stern look and scolded:

"What’s gotten into you, kid? Can’t you tell good advice from bad? High school is tough. Can school food compare to your mom’s cooking? And those dorms—how could they possibly be as comfortable as home?"

She wagged her finger like every Southern aunt at Thanksgiving—part warning, part performance.

Snapping back to reality, I watched the aunt and niece bicker and sneered inwardly.

"She’s not my mom. She’s just the woman who broke up my parents’ marriage. My mom is Rachel, not her."

Natalie straightened her neck and corrected her aunt loudly.

Everyone in the dining room turned to look at me, their eyes full of curiosity, sympathy, and ridicule.

Forks paused halfway to mouths. Some people exchanged whispers. A few looked away, suddenly engrossed in their potato salad. No one came to my defense; the queen bee had spoken.

But not a single person said a word to criticize Natalie, the state’s top scorer.

It was as if academic success had bought her a free pass from the whole community. No one wanted to risk her cutting them off.

My husband’s younger sister’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction and mockery, as if she was waiting for a show.

She crossed her arms, lips curled in a half-smirk, clearly relishing every awkward moment. If there was a fire to be stoked, she’d be the first to toss in kindling.

I knew she and Rachel were best friends.

The whole town did—Maple Heights was too small for secrets. I’d learned that lesson the hard way.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, blinking fast. If I cried now, I’d never hear the end of it.

This time, I won’t let her or anyone else tear me apart.