Chapter 2: The Price of Second Chances

“Dad, I want to repeat senior year. The tuition for the private school is thirty grand. Please, give me another chance. I swear I’ll work hard this time.”

I’d just gotten home from a brutal day at the office—paperwork stacked high, my tie still stained with old coffee—when Natalie charged out of her bedroom. She dropped to her knees right there on our threadbare living room rug and clung to my leg, her voice cracking as she begged for tuition money to repeat her senior year at the city’s most elite private high school.

My keys were still warm in my palm; the door had barely clicked shut behind me. Her desperation caught me completely off guard, my exhaustion mixing with confusion.

Just this morning, before I left for work, she was still screaming at me—

Swearing that if I kept her from that bleach-haired punk, she’d hate me forever and never set foot in my nursing home.

How could she flip so fast? It was like someone had thrown a switch. Maybe she saw the doubt in my face, because suddenly Natalie risked a glance upward, searching my eyes for a reaction. Her voice cracked, desperate and raw:

“I watched an educational documentary today and realized that the best way out for regular people is to work hard in school.”

She sounded rehearsed, like she’d been practicing that line in front of the bathroom mirror. I remembered hearing Netflix through the cracked door earlier, but a documentary? Still, there was a flicker of hope in her voice I hadn’t heard before.

“I don’t want to waste my life. I want to repeat a year at the best school in the city, get into Harvard or Stanford, and make you proud, Dad.”

“It’s good that you’ve come around. If you’re really willing, I’ll pay for everything.” My heart melted, despite myself. There isn’t a parent alive who doesn’t want their kid to aim high. Even after everything, hearing her say this moved me. I agreed on the spot.

But something in my gut twisted. It was all happening too fast.

What kind of documentary could turn my stubborn daughter around overnight? Maybe there was some new motivational show blowing up. I made a mental note to ask my coworkers about it—maybe it could work on their rebellious teens, too.

Truth is, I’d planned for Natalie to repeat senior year at her current high school. She wouldn’t have to adjust, and her teachers knew her quirks—her late-night cramming, her tendency to skip gym. But she insisted on the best private school. Sure, the teachers were top-notch, but the tuition was insane—tens of thousands a year. The kind of place where the vending machines sell kombucha and the parking lot’s full of Teslas.

Still, since she finally wanted to try, I was ready to back her. What’s the point of working overtime if not to give your kid a better shot? I thought of my own dad, how his hands were always stained with grease from the tire shop, and how he never missed a single Little League game.

I reached for my wallet, about to slide out my debit card—then, out of the corner of my eye, a thin line of text appeared above Natalie’s head. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, feeling my pulse race. Was I hallucinating, or just bone-tired? But the words stayed put:

[Great, our girl is about to succeed.]

[Thank goodness for a second chance at life, or our heroine would have missed out on true love forever, all because of her unreasonable dad.]

[In her last life, our girl was forced by her dad to study. Sure, she never had to worry about food or money, but what’s the point of a life without love?]

[Worthy of being the heroine—on the very first day of her new life, she found the perfect excuse to get money and run away with her true love.]

Each line hit me like a shard of ice. My fingers froze, the plastic card biting into my palm. I stopped reaching for my wallet and cleared my throat, stalling.

“By the way, wasn’t Mrs. Carter’s nephew next door the one who repeated a year there and got into Harvard? I believe in you. You’ll definitely make the honor roll, just like him.”

Natalie rolled her eyes so hard I wondered if she could see her own brain. She let out a sharp, practiced sigh.

“Who wants to be like him? That guy graduated and became a broke city clerk, went on blind dates, got married, had kids. His life is so boring.”

I forced a smile, nodding to hide my concern. “You’ve grown up. You have your own ideas now.” The air between us felt heavy, thick with the storm to come.

Looks like she really has been reborn. Those comments weren’t just in my head. But this version of my daughter is still a little sloppy, letting her secrets slip so easily. I made a note to check Facebook for Mrs. Carter’s nephew—he’d just gotten into Harvard, hadn’t even picked a major yet. Natalie barely knew him, so how could she predict he’d end up a city clerk with kids?

While we spoke, more comments scrolled by above her. They reminded me of a Greek chorus—if the chorus was rooting for my downfall:

[What’s wrong with this heroine’s dad? Why isn’t he handing over the money and suddenly rambling nonsense?]

[Yeah, by now the boyfriend should be in the hospital after a fight, and because he can’t pay the hospital fees, his surgery gets delayed, leaving him disabled for life. Our girl needs to hurry up and get the money!]

[Ugh, I’m so anxious watching this. I want to rush in and get rid of the dad so she can inherit the family fortune and be with her boyfriend.]

[Agreed with the one above, I’ll sponsor a knife.]

Comment after comment, all eager for me to mess up. My skin prickled like I was standing on a subway platform, the train barreling toward me.

I slid my wallet back into my pocket. “Anyway, there’s no rush about repeating a year. Tuition can wait a few days.”