Chapter 3: Back to Sixteen

When I opened my eyes again, I was sixteen years old once more. My childhood bedroom was exactly as I remembered: faded floral wallpaper, a patchwork quilt, the faint hum of my old window AC rattling in the sticky summer heat.

In this life, Rachel was still just the president’s son, not yet president. I knew I had time, but my heart raced with anxious hope.

I had my dad invite a traveling doctor from the South to check my health as soon as possible. Dad was skeptical but willing, making a few calls to friends at the university until he found someone—an older physician with a Tennessee drawl and an encyclopedic knowledge of old folk remedies.

The doctor shook his head helplessly. “This girl’s been healthy as a horse since she was a kid—how could she have any hidden illnesses?” He chuckled as he patted my wrist, eyes kind and steady.

I frowned and insisted, “I really want the Southern doctor to check my blood pressure, just to be sure.”

During my more than ten years in the White House, the presidential doctors claimed I’d hurt my health as a child, making it difficult for me to have kids. That memory haunted me, sharp as a splinter.

I was anxious and distressed, unable to give Rachel a child.

He had several sons and daughters, but none with me. Even though Rachel always comforted me, it remained a deep regret. Each time, he’d cup my cheek and say, “You’re all I need,” but the ache never faded.

In this life, only if I could bear his child would I feel truly fulfilled. I ached for that sense of wholeness, that hope of family.