Chapter 1: Second Chances and Old Wounds

Back then—what I now call my previous life—the SATs and my daughter’s favorite pop star’s concert happened to fall on the same afternoon.

It was one of those unpredictable spring days in Pennsylvania, the sky wavering between pouring rain and piercing blue, the air thick with that fragile sense of everything teetering between hope and disaster. The memory is sharp: cinnamon from my morning coffee, the concert ticket crinkling as my daughter tossed it across the counter, and the tremor in my hands as she bolted outside, as if escaping a five-alarm fire.

My daughter flung her SAT admission ticket onto the kitchen counter, then bolted out the front door, shouting, “I’m not taking the test. There’s an SAT every year, but after my idol’s comeback, there’s only this one concert today. He even cried at the fan meet yesterday, saying we’re his only light.”

Her words echoed down Maple Heights, past the mailboxes and the row of American flags fluttering in front yards. I half-expected Mrs. Gutierrez to peek out, already dialing her sister with the latest Harrison family drama. Lily’s voice always carried, wild and sharp, like she wanted the whole block to know she was staking her claim to freedom.

I sprinted after her down Maple Heights Road, caught up, and practically wrangled her into a rideshare before dragging her to the test center. In the end, she got into one of the top universities in the country, and everyone applauded her for it.

Even now, my chest aches remembering that run—sandals slapping pavement, keys jangling in my grip, yanking open the backseat of that battered Honda Civic. By the time I deposited her at the test center, sweat had soaked my blouse, but I forced a smile for the proctor, playing my part in the great American family charade. Later, when applause thundered at her graduation, it felt hollow—a trophy with the price etched quietly into my bones.

The very next day, the entertainment headlines exploded: the top pop star was seen holding hands with a mysterious girl at the concert.

The story hit every gossip blog and Twitter feed, little heart icons and exclamation marks pulsing through my daughter’s world. It even played on the TV in the corner at our local diner, where old men sipped coffee and didn’t care, but Lily stared at the screen like the earth had split open.

She saw it trending on Instagram and totally lost it.

Her phone’s cracked screen glowed in her trembling hands as she scrolled, tears brimming and breath hitching. She paced the kitchen, muttering about betrayal, while the fridge buzzed and cicadas hummed outside—only they bore witness to her heartbreak.

At her college acceptance dinner that night, she tore up her acceptance letter, smashed her phone, and screamed at me: “She’s wearing the same dress as me! If you hadn’t stopped me, the person standing next to him would’ve been me!”

Instead of celebrating with store-bought cake and stubborn candles, we watched shredded paper flutter to the floor. The crack of her phone against tile was louder than any toast. The neighbors heard, but nobody came. Her words were acid, burning through the air, and in that moment I saw the abyss between us—a mother and daughter stranded on either side of a broken American dream.

That night, she pushed me off the balcony of our two-story house. The big insurance payout was blown on merch and concert tickets for her fangirl journey.

It’s a small house with white siding, the kind you find in every town across the Midwest, with a wooden deck that creaks under your feet. The fall was fast but the aftermath dragged: hospital beeps, police questions echoing in my ears, and then a life insurance policy that meant nothing but empty boxes of glossy posters and neon lightsticks. My life’s work reduced to a string of online orders and fleeting applause.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the day before the SATs.

It felt like waking up from a fever dream—sun pouring through the window in exactly the same way, my favorite mug by the sink, the clock blinking 7:32 a.m. Everything was too familiar and impossibly strange. Like fate—or maybe God—had pressed rewind, handing me a second chance. Or maybe just a cruel joke.

My daughter was hysterically shouting about wanting to go to the concert.

She stomped around the living room, voice cracking, hair wild, desperation etched into every word. Her backpack lay by the door, unzipped and stuffed with Sharpies, a poster tube, and a glittery banner with Jason’s name in bubble letters. It would have been comical, if not for the anxiety blooming in my chest.

I smiled wide: “Go ahead, how could the SATs be more important than your idol?”

I watched her face as my words sank in, confusion flickering in her eyes. For the first time, I felt a strange sense of power—like I was finally rewriting the script of our lives.