Chapter 1: The Birthday Wish

The scent of frosted chocolate cake hung in the air, candles flickering as family gathered around the kitchen table. Balloons bounced lazily against the ceiling, and someone’s playlist hummed from a phone on the counter. It was my son’s eighteenth birthday.

He closed his eyes, hands pressed together, and wished for his grandparents to live long, healthy lives.

Then he wished for Dad to have a smooth, rising career.

When it was my turn, I looked at him, my face full of anticipation. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, trying to keep my nerves in check. My eyes must have been shining with hope, heart pounding, a smile frozen on my lips. I’d always imagined this moment—maybe he’d thank me, maybe he’d just nod and smile. The room felt heavy with what I wanted but wouldn’t say aloud.

He knew what I wanted most was good health.

But instead, he rolled his eyes so hard, I swear he wanted the whole room to catch it.

He didn’t even try to hide it. He made sure everyone saw, letting out a sigh before saying, "I hope you get divorced soon and stay far away from us."

I was stunned.

My hands went numb on the table. I remembered the first time he called me ‘Mom’—how small his voice had been. For a split second, I couldn’t breathe. The words hung in the air, sharper than any knife. The birthday candles flickered, catching the tension.

My husband laughed at me. "That’s what you get for being so strict with him all the time. Serves you right."

He smirked, arms crossed, as if the punchline had been delivered just for him. My cheeks burned with embarrassment; everyone else avoided my eyes.

Later, my son moved to the States, taking the whole family with him—except me.

It happened so quickly. Papers signed, bags packed, a new life in California—or maybe Austin, he never said exactly. They left behind only a few stray bills and my silence echoing in the house.

When I begged him, he shook off my hand.

He barely looked at me, just wrenched away, as if I were a stranger pestering him outside a grocery store. My heart twisted.

"I’ve already found a sweet new partner for Dad. Don’t come and ruin things."

He said it matter-of-factly, like he was talking about swapping cell phone plans, not families. I tasted bitterness and loss at once.

Later, I died alone in a cramped apartment. The hum of the radiator, the faded Yankees pennant on the wall, and the stale scent of takeout containers made the room feel even smaller. The place was barely more than a converted basement in an old brick walk-up. No one visited, not even the neighbors except for the occasional noise complaint.

When I woke up, I had actually returned to the day of my son’s birthday. I blinked at the sunlight slanting through the blinds. I half expected to still hear the hum of the old fridge, the distant city traffic. Instead, my hands were younger, the air was fresher, and I realized—somehow, I was back at the beginning, at the moment everything had started to unravel.