Chapter 3: The Second Chance

It took me a while to realize I had been given a second chance.

Today was my son’s eighteenth birthday.

I could hear voices from the kitchen—the clang of pots, the aroma of cinnamon rolls. The living room was dressed up with blue-and-gold streamers and a banner that read “Happy Birthday Caleb!”

Outside, there was laughter and joy, fatherly love and family warmth.

The backyard was filled with relatives—someone tossing a football, kids giggling over melting ice cream, a playlist of pop songs from Caleb’s high school days streaming through someone’s iPhone. The kind of Saturday afternoon I’d always wanted to freeze in time.

And in my hand, I was holding a birthday gift.

It was an admission ticket to an elite winter camp in Vermont—something I had begged for, using all my connections and swallowing my pride.

I’d spent weeks calling, emailing, even tracking down the head counselor at a Rotary Club pancake breakfast. When the envelope finally arrived, I hid it under my pillow, afraid to jinx it.

All the kids attending were the children of local politicians or wealthy families; being smart was just the bare minimum.

This wasn’t the kind of camp you found on Google. It was where future senators and CEOs sent their kids to network and ski and dream bigger than anyone back home. The application alone felt like an entrance exam to a new world.

In my previous life, my son relied on this opportunity to meet important people, which gave him the chance to start a business and become successful.

I remembered watching him pack his duffel bag, his hands shaking with excitement. I remembered thinking, this is it—this is how he’ll get the life I never had.

"Maggie, what are you dawdling for? Caleb is about to make a wish."

Hearing my husband’s shout, I walked out.

I smoothed my blouse and took a deep breath, bracing myself. The laughter dulled as I entered, the way folks at church quiet down when the sermon starts.

Just like before, my appearance was like a bucket of ice water, instantly chilling the lively atmosphere.

My son glanced at me indifferently, then put his hands together and started to make a wish.

He didn’t even look up, just squeezed his eyes shut like he couldn’t wait for the moment to be over.

"Please, let my grandparents live long, healthy lives."

"And bless my dad with a smooth career, moving up and earning a six-figure salary."

The three elders clapped joyfully, looking pleased.

There were satisfied smiles, Grandpa patting Caleb’s back, Grandma beaming, Dad reaching for another slice of cake.

They all gave their gifts.

Grandpa handed over a brand-new Spalding, and Grandma beamed as she pressed a crisp $50 bill into his palm.

Dad gave a pair of basketball shoes.

The box was bright red and blue, and the shoes still had that fresh-from-the-store smell. I saw Caleb’s eyes light up, just for a second.

My son accepted them gratefully, kissing each of them on the cheek.

He made a big show of it, laughing, hugging Grandpa, squeezing Grandma’s hand, even winking at Dad. The warmth was real—for them, at least.

The next second, he was about to blow out the candles.

My mother-in-law pressed his hand, glancing at me. She shot me that look—like, if you don’t play nice, we’re all in for another Sunday drama.

So, just like in my previous life, my son reluctantly put his hands together again.

He made a point of sighing, eyes rolling, as if this were some cruel test.

"I hope my mom and dad get divorced soon. Let my mom, this jinx, stay far away from us, and best never appear in our lives again."

Exactly the same words.

The difference was, I no longer reacted as strongly as before, nor would I foolishly cry and ask him why. My hands tightened on the table, but I refused to let them see. My heart squeezed, but I let the words pass over me like cold water over stone. I remembered the first time he called me ‘Mom’—how small his voice had been.