The moment I saw her, my breath caught in my throat. My mother. Young, vibrant, untouched by time. She stood at the kitchen sink, humming a song I had long forgotten, her hands immersed in soapy water. The scent of lemon and fresh bread filled the air. I wasn’t supposed to be here—not in this moment. But the longing had been too great.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t dare. I only wanted to see her one last time, to burn the memory of her face into my mind, to remember the way she smiled. But then she turned.
And she saw me.
Her eyes widened; her body stiffened. The plate she had been washing slipped from her fingers and shattered against the porcelain sink. A gasp, a whisper—”a ghost.”
I ran.
The machine whirred, time rippled, and then I was back. But something was wrong.
The photos on the mantel were different. My wedding picture showed a man who was not my husband—my childhood sweetheart, a boy I hadn’t spoken to in years. And the children in the family portraits? Strangers with my eyes.
I staggered back.
The truth crashed over me. My mother had seen me that day. She had taken it as a warning, a sign to be careful, to avoid risks. She had hesitated when crossing the street, chosen a different route, avoided a car accident she was meant to have. It had changed her trajectory—changed mine.
I clutched the wall for balance. The home I had returned to was familiar yet utterly foreign.
A single mistake. A moment too long in the past. And now, I belonged to a life I had never lived.
