Chapter 2: Reborn in 1977

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1

"Natalie, I'm heading to work. Remember to see the supervisor later and get your suspension application back."

The sound of the front door closing echoed in my ears, and only then did I bolt upright in bed.

It was the kind of slam that rattled the thin windows, a sound that used to mean Derek was off to work, briefcase in hand, not a care in the world. My heart jackhammered in my chest as I forced myself up, the weight of history and regret pressing down on me.

Looking at the old house from thirty or forty years ago, I finally realized: I had truly been reborn.

The faded wallpaper, avocado-green appliances, and the sweet smell of cinnamon toast from the kitchen—it was all exactly as I remembered from childhood stories, my own and the ones Mom used to tell. The morning sun slanted through lace curtains. Even the silence felt thicker here, like the world hadn’t yet caught up to itself.

It was 1977.

This was the second year of our marriage.

The calendar on the fridge, covered in handwritten notes and coupons for A&P, confirmed it. The Bicentennial year was behind us, but the future stretched out uncertainly in front of me. A couple of Polaroids on the wall showed Derek and me, grinning and naive.

Derek Foster and I had both been accepted to Great Lakes Institute of Technology.

That letter—still tucked into a cracked frame—was our golden ticket. Even after all these years, just the name gave me a flutter in my stomach. Great Lakes was the sort of place people in our corner of Indiana dreamed of.

But just last night, because Derek's mother broke her leg, we decided: I would withdraw my application for leave, give up my chance to attend college, and stay behind to keep working at the defense plant.

The smell of rubbing alcohol and a pair of crutches in the hallway still lingered. The decision had seemed reasonable then, but now I saw it for what it was—a crossroads disguised as sacrifice.

He, meanwhile, would go to the Midwest to attend college as planned.

And just like that, the world split in two: his future, wide and open; mine, boxed in by duty and someone else’s needs. I watched him go, suitcase in hand, never realizing I was packing away my own ambitions.

The next year, I originally wanted to take the SATs again, but I became pregnant and had to put that plan on hold.

The pregnancy test had been a blue stripe on a cardboard stick, bought in secret from the local pharmacy. The irony wasn’t lost on me—every time I tried to get ahead, life threw another curveball.

After that, we were separated for over a decade.

Our lives splintered into phone calls and postcards, visits at holidays when he could get away. The miles between us felt endless—Indiana to Michigan, sometimes farther. I learned to keep busy, to keep moving, even as the loneliness grew.

During those years, I raised our child alone, took care of my parents, and worked at the same time.

Mornings started before sunrise, packing lunches, helping with homework, making sure Mom got her pills and Dad made it to his doctor appointments. I remember staring out at the falling snow, wondering how I’d survive another winter.

But when I finally became a technician and had just entered the research institute, Derek returned.

He came home with a duffel bag and a head full of new ideas. The kid I remembered had turned into a man with callouses and an air of authority. The house felt small when he walked in.

Thanks to his impressive resume, he became the director of the research institute.

It was all over town in a week—Derek Foster, the local boy made good, was now running the place. People stopped me at the grocery store to congratulate me. I smiled and nodded, not sure whether to be proud or anxious.

From then on, I spent ten years striving for promotion, only to be blocked every single year.

I watched younger men—some barely out of college—leapfrog past me. Every review cycle was the same: fresh hope, then the dull ache of disappointment.

The first year, he struck my name off the list.

I’d stared at the memo on the corkboard outside the director’s office, my name crossed out in red pen. I stood there so long that the janitor asked if I needed anything.

Because I was his wife, he said he feared rumors, so he removed me.

He delivered the news at dinner, as if it was a mere technicality. “It’s for your own good, Nat. You don’t want people thinking you got special treatment, do you?”

He told me to try again the next year.

And I did. I always did. I poured myself into my work, logging extra hours, fixing what others couldn’t, thinking my time would come.

The second year, he said I still had a chance and should focus on learning more technical skills and knowledge.

I signed up for every training course the company offered. Some nights I fell asleep with my nose in a textbook, the lamp burning long after midnight.

Year after year, all the way to the fifth year, I was still passed over.

By then, the whispers had started—people wondered why Derek’s wife never moved up, if maybe she just wasn’t good enough after all. I kept my head down, but the shame stuck to me like a bad cold.

Humiliated, I asked why.

I caught him on the porch one evening, surrounded by fireflies and the smell of freshly cut grass. My voice trembled, but I needed to know.

Why did all the leaders in the institute think my technical skills were solid, yet it was always him who rejected me?

The question hung in the air. For a moment, I thought he’d walk away.

He was silent for a long time before saying:

"Natalie, you should give more opportunities to the younger folks. If the older generation hadn't stepped aside back then, how could we have gotten into the research lab so easily?"

I bit my lip, trying not to let the hurt show. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t old, that I’d waited long enough. But he looked so sure of himself—like this was the natural order of things.

In the final year, knowing that if I wasn't promoted I would have to step down, I pleaded with him in tears.

I remember gripping his sleeve, desperate for him to see me—not as his wife, but as someone who’d sacrificed everything. My voice broke; he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

But the next day, the first name on the promotion list was actually his white moonlight—the woman he had always admired from afar.

Her name—Samantha Lee—shone at the top. I remembered the way her eyes lit up whenever Derek was in the room, and the way he softened when he talked to her.

This time, the man who always prided himself on fairness and integrity…

Used every connection he had to once again strike my name from the list, taking away my last chance for promotion.

People at the plant whispered about how tough the decision must’ve been for him. No one ever asked how I felt.

Only then did I realize:

During the more than ten years we were apart, there was always someone by Derek's side.

Photos of them at conferences, quiet lunches, his hand resting a little too close to hers—these memories surfaced, making me wonder how I missed it all those years.

That woman stayed single her entire life, never married, never had children—just to remain near him.

She’d become a fixture at the institute, organizing birthday cakes, sending sympathy cards, always just out of reach but never gone. People whispered she was waiting for someone—now I knew who.

In the end, he couldn't bear to see her leave the institute, so he sacrificed me instead.

The realization landed with the weight of a lead blanket. It was never about me at all.

When I saw the list, I instinctively looked at the two of them.

Samantha’s face was pink with happiness, her eyes shining. Derek stood beside her, shoulders relaxed for the first time in months.

Derek looked relieved, and that woman was weeping with joy.

A few people congratulated them quietly, as if it was some private victory.

As for me, it felt like I had been sacrificed for their silent, unspoken understanding.

I stood there for what felt like forever, my feet numb, heart splintering, realizing I’d played my part in someone else’s story.

Thinking of this, I trembled as I covered my face. Tears slipped through my fingers like a string of broken pearls, quickly soaking the bedding.

I sobbed quietly into my pillow, the sounds muffled by the faded floral case. The room around me felt both too small and unbearably empty.

That foolish decision—I spent my whole life paying for it.

Regret is a slow poison. I wished I could go back, just once, and choose myself instead.