Chapter 2: Back to the Breaking Point

When I opened my eyes, I’d been given a second chance. At first, I thought it was a dream.

The world snapped back into focus. My lungs filled with air. For a moment, I thought it was a dream, but the pain, the regret, the longing—they were all still there. Only now, I had time. Time to do things differently, maybe even for myself.

My son was yelling at me, calling me controlling.

His voice cracked with teenage frustration, the kind that rattles the windows and makes you wonder if you’ve failed at everything. He stood in the doorway, face red, fists clenched, a storm in sneakers.

"All you ever do is boss me around, tell me what to eat, what to do. You’re driving me insane."

The words hit harder this time, maybe because I knew where they would lead. His anger wasn't new, but it felt sharper, more desperate—as if he was begging for something he couldn't name.

"God, can’t you just go die already!"

His spit landed on my cheek, and I froze.

I didn't move, didn't wipe it away. For a second, the world tilted. I felt the humiliation, the heartbreak, the raw shock. But underneath it all, I felt a strange calm—like I was watching someone else's life unfold.

I looked around, shocked by the familiar scene. I was back—reliving my son’s eighth-grade year.

The wallpaper, the worn carpet, the pile of textbooks on the table—it was all just as I remembered. The clock on the wall ticked out the same relentless rhythm. My hands trembled, but my mind raced. I knew this year. I knew every fight, every tear, every hope that would go unspoken.

Because there was only one year left before high school, I’d made him a study schedule for the magnet-school entrance exam. Today was day five, and as soon as he got home, he exploded.

I remembered the color-coded charts taped to the fridge, the careful plans I'd made to give him every advantage. Now, I saw how the weight of my worry had pressed down on him, how every minute felt like a test he couldn't escape. The air in the house was thick with expectation.

He cursed under his breath, making little digs. I’d just opened my mouth to ask him something when he threw that line at me.

His voice was low, almost a growl. He wouldn't meet my eyes. I could see his knuckles whitening around the straps of his backpack, the way his jaw clenched with every word. It was like watching a dam about to burst.

He tossed the scanning dictionary pen I’d bought for him onto the floor, smashing it.

The pen hit the tile with a crack, pieces scattering under the table. I remembered saving up for that pen, thinking it would help him keep up in English. Now, it felt like a symbol of everything broken between us. My heart ached, but I forced myself to stay still.

"Screw English! You learn it yourself! Stop forcing your dreams on me—I’m not here to live your life for you!"

His voice rose, almost a shout. I could hear the pain underneath the anger—the desperate need to be seen as his own person, not just an extension of me. The words echoed in the hallway, lingering long after he stormed past.

This was already the third time he’d blown up at me this week.

I counted them in my head—Monday, Wednesday, now Friday. Each time, the arguments got louder, the silences longer. The family walked on eggshells, but no one ever asked what I was feeling.

I calmly asked, "Didn’t you say you wouldn’t settle for anything less than a top high school?"

I kept my tone even, fighting to keep the tremor out of my voice. I wanted to reach him, to remind him of his own dreams, not just mine. But I could see he wasn't listening—his eyes darted away, lips pressed into a thin line.

He scoffed. "I’ve always been top of my class since middle school. You think I can’t get into a top school?"

His bravado was brittle, like a mask he wore to hide the fear underneath. I remembered how much he hated looking weak, how every little setback felt like the end of the world to him. He puffed out his chest, but I saw the doubt flicker in his eyes.

My mother-in-law, perched on the recliner, chimed in, "That’s right, Nora, you’re way too strict with Jamie. Our Jamie is so smart, he doesn’t need to study that much. Your schedules are suffocating him, you should take a hard look at yourself."

She leaned forward, voice dripping with false concern. Her hands folded neatly in her lap, but her eyes sparkled with satisfaction. This was her favorite game—turning my efforts into failures. I felt the old resentment flare, but I bit my tongue.

My father-in-law spat sunflower seed shells into a paper cup and nodded along.

The sound was oddly loud in the quiet room, each shell a tiny punctuation mark to his silent agreement. He didn't say much, but his disapproval hung in the air like a storm cloud.

I asked, "One hour of study time each night, three hours of tutoring on Saturday, Sundays completely off—is that strict for a kid getting ready for the exam?"

I kept my voice steady, listing the facts. I wanted someone—anyone—to see the reason behind my choices. But all I got were blank stares and a dismissive shrug from Jamie.

Jamie threw his backpack on the floor. "You’re a control freak. You just like bossing me around, so of course you don’t think it’s strict. I’m a person—I need to breathe! Give me back my weekends and my evenings!"

His words tumbled out in a rush, hands flailing for emphasis. The backpack landed with a thud, books spilling out, homework forgotten. I watched the scene unfold, a familiar ache settling in my chest. He was desperate for freedom, but didn't know what to do with it.

My husband, Rick, walked in, frowning. "What’s all the yelling? I could hear you from the garage."

He wiped his hands on his jeans, keys jangling in his pocket. The smell of motor oil clung to him, sharp and sour. He glanced from Jamie to me, eyes narrowing, already choosing sides.

He turned to me. "Nora, are you nagging Jamie again?"

His tone was accusatory, not a question but a verdict. I could see the exhaustion in his eyes, but also the unwillingness to listen. He always took the easy way out—blame me, move on.

Everyone blamed me.

The weight of their stares pressed down on me, heavier than any chore. I felt invisible, my efforts twisted into faults. It was like being trapped in a play where I was always the villain, no matter what I did.

I remembered that in my last life, I’d desperately tried to explain how Jamie would fall behind if he didn’t work hard, but all I got were their eye rolls and resentment. I felt so pitiful and ridiculous.

The memory stung—how I’d pleaded, voice cracking, only to be met with sighs and sideways glances. I realized now how lonely it was to fight for someone who refused to see you.

This time, I wasn’t angry or anxious. I asked my son, "So what do you want to do?"

I surprised myself with the calm in my voice. I watched Jamie's face shift from defiance to confusion. I had always been the one with the answers, the plans. Now, I was handing him the pen, and he didn't know what to do with it.

Jamie looked at me, surprised, like he hadn’t expected that question.

His mouth opened, then closed. He blinked, searching for the catch. The silence stretched, heavy with possibility. For the first time, he seemed unsure.

He paused, then said, "First, I want to eat what I want and sleep when I want. You can’t control me!"

His voice was softer now, almost pleading. I could see the hope flicker in his eyes, as if he was daring to believe I might actually listen.

I nodded. "Okay."

I kept my answer simple, letting the word hang in the air. Jamie stared at me like I’d grown a second head. I could see the gears turning—was this a trick? Was I really letting go?

Jamie’s eyes nearly popped out. He sputtered, "Don’t brush me off—I’m being serious!"

He waved his arms, voice rising again. He wanted a fight, wanted me to push back so he could push harder. But I stayed calm, refusing to play the same old game.

Rick tried to hide his surprise and jumped in, "Nora, I’ve told you before: the kid needs more than just studying. He needs to rest, too. You keep making him bury his head in books, he’s already miserable. Don’t you think there’s something wrong with you?"

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, trying to look authoritative. But I saw the uncertainty in his eyes—he wasn’t used to me backing down. He liked having a target for his frustration.

My mother-in-law added fuel to the fire. "I’ve said for ages that Nora’s parenting is a problem! Our Jamie used to be such a happy kid, now he’s getting weirder and weirder. People at church ask me if he’s got issues, say I should take him to a counselor!"

She clucked her tongue, shaking her head dramatically. I pictured the gossip in the church basement, the sideways glances during coffee hour. She loved being the martyr, loved the attention.

My father-in-law grunted, tossed his sunflower shells in the trash, and glared at me. "As a mom, can’t you just back off? In the old days, you’d be the talk of the whole town for pushing your kid like this!"

He spoke with the authority of someone who'd never had to raise a child in the age of college prep and social media. His words carried the weight of tradition, but none of the understanding.

I let out a laugh and spread my hands. "Why is everyone so worked up? What did I even say?"

I kept it light. I felt a strange freedom in that moment, as if the old rules no longer applied. I looked around the room, daring anyone to answer.

My mother-in-law bared her teeth. "Even if you don’t say it out loud, I know you’ll never agree to let Jamie have more free time. I know you too well!"

She leaned forward, voice sharp. Her eyes dared me to contradict her, to prove her right. But I just smiled, refusing to take the bait.

I ignored her and asked my son, "Any other requests?"

I turned my attention back to Jamie, blocking out the noise. His face lit up, emboldened by my willingness to listen. He glanced at his dad, his grandparents, then back at me, as if checking to see if this was real.

He glanced at them, then, emboldened, added, "Besides those two, I want to get rid of the 45-minute phone limit. I want to play as long as I want—games, streams, whatever—even if I’m up till 3 a.m., you can’t stop me!"

He spoke quickly, voice rising with excitement. I could see the dreams flicker in his eyes—late nights, endless freedom, no more rules. He was testing the boundaries, pushing to see how far I’d let him go.

I nodded again. "Okay."

My answer was quiet, but firm. I could feel the disbelief ripple through the room. Jamie stared at me, mouth open, as if waiting for the punchline.

His eyes got even wider. He grabbed a notebook and scribbled out more than a dozen demands.

He hunched over the coffee table, pen scratching furiously. I watched the list grow—curfews, chores, grades, even what shows he could watch. He wanted control over every inch of his life.

I glanced over them; basically, he wanted me to let go of everything to do with him.

The list was long, detailed, almost comical in its thoroughness. I could see the desperation in his handwriting—the need to carve out space for himself, to prove he was more than just my project.

He handed the list over. "Sign it. I won’t believe you unless you sign!"

He held out the paper, hand trembling slightly. I could see the challenge in his eyes, the hope and fear tangled together. He wanted me to refuse, to give him a reason to keep fighting.

I looked at Rick and my in-laws. They all stared at me, waiting for me to say no so they could pile on the criticism like always.

Their faces were a study in anticipation—eyebrows raised, lips pursed, ready to pounce. I felt the old pressure, but this time, I let it roll off me.

I’ve lived like this for almost ten years.

Ten years of being the scapegoat, the target, the invisible backbone. I felt the years press down on me, but also the strange lightness of knowing I could choose differently.

Jamie isn’t naturally gifted at school. What other kids get in a minute, he needs half an hour to really understand, but he always wanted to be the best, to be called a genius.

I remembered the late nights, the tears over homework, the longing in his eyes when someone else got praised. He wore his ambition like armor, but it was heavy, and he carried it alone.

Without any natural gift but wanting to get into a top high school and bask in the praise, he could only work twice as hard.

I saw the exhaustion in his posture, the way he slumped at the table after hours of study. He wanted the glory, but the price was steep. I tried to lighten the load, but maybe I just added to it.

In my last life, after seeing how things were, I weighed my options and chose him over my own career.

I remembered the day I handed in my resignation, the way my colleagues hugged me goodbye. I told myself it was worth it, that Jamie needed me more than anyone else. But sometimes, late at night, I wondered if I’d made the right choice.

I quit my job as a teacher and devoted myself to being a wife and mother, pulling him up from the bottom of the class to the top ten.

Every report card felt like a personal victory. Every compliment from a teacher made my heart swell. I poured myself into his success, convinced it would bring us closer.

My daily life, besides chores and taking care of my in-laws, was buying practice books, making study plans, helping with homework, reviewing material, and keeping his schedule balanced.

The days blurred together—laundry, grocery lists, flashcards, spelling tests. I became an expert in time management, but lost track of my own needs somewhere along the way.

Nearly ten years, on repeat.

The seasons changed, birthdays came and went, but the routine stayed the same. I measured my worth in test scores and clean countertops.

Life was monotonous and exhausting, but seeing him improve, I felt it was worth it.

Every small victory—an A on a quiz, a smile from Jamie—was a balm. I told myself it was enough, that love meant sacrifice.

I endured his tantrums, the constant blame, and helped turn him into a top student in a top university’s design program—even helped him win that senior project prize.

I watched him grow, stumble, rise again. I patched up his wounds, soothed his fears, and pushed him when he wanted to quit. When he stood on that stage, diploma in hand, I thought I’d finally done something right.

And the result?

The question echoed in my mind, heavy and sharp. Was it worth it? Did he see me at all?

When he gave his speech on stage, he thanked everyone—himself, his dad, his grandparents, teachers, classmates—even the stray cats outside his dorm—but not a word about me.

I sat in the audience, hands clasped tight, waiting for my name. The applause washed over me, but I felt invisible. I smiled for the cameras, but inside, something cracked.

I was also left out of the prize money.

I watched as he handed out gifts, laughter and hugs all around. I stood in the corner, waiting for my turn, but it never came. I told myself it didn't matter, but the hurt lingered.

After graduation, he used all the honors I’d helped him earn to land a job at a big-name company. With his first paycheck, he moved out. He didn’t come home for Thanksgiving or Christmas that year.

The house was quiet that fall, the table set for one less. I watched the door, listened for his footsteps, but the silence stretched on. I learned to eat alone, to wrap presents that would never be opened.

Later, I fell into a depression and ended up in a hospital bed, asking to see him.

The days blurred together in the hospital, the smell of antiseptic clinging to my skin. I asked Rick to call Jamie, my voice barely a whisper. I waited, counting the hours, then the days.

He showed up two weeks late, phone in hand, laughing at something on TikTok.

He barely looked up as he entered, thumb scrolling, laughter echoing in the sterile room. I reached for him, but he pulled away, eyes glued to the screen.

I started to say something to him, and before I could finish, he snapped, "I’m independent now, can’t I use my phone without you breathing down my neck?"

His words were sharp, dismissive. I felt the distance between us—a chasm I could never cross. I let my hand fall, the silence swallowing us both.

After that, the only time he came back was when I was about to die.

The last visit was rushed, perfunctory. He stood by the door, coat half-zipped, eyes on the clock. I wanted to say so much, but the words stuck in my throat. He told the doctor to stop treatment, his voice cold, efficient.

The doctor hesitated, glancing at me, but Jamie's voice was firm. I watched him turn away, my heart breaking all over again.