Not My Kids, Not My Life

Michael Thompson, a shell of a man at 58, lay dying in a sterile nursing home bed.

His wife, Brenda, had passed a year prior, but her final words were still a fresh wound.

"Michael," she' d whispered with a chilling, triumphant smile, "The children… David and Sarah… they' re not yours."

"They' re Rick' s. It was always Rick."

His rival, the man he despised, the one she supposedly hated with him.

His entire life, every sacrifice for their family, every dream deferred, was a cruel, elaborate lie.

He' d given everything, only to be drained emotionally and financially by the woman he loved.

After her funeral, the children he' d raised had swiftly and efficiently stripped him of his assets, leaving him abandoned in this desolate place.

Deep regret, a bitter acid, burned in his chest.

If only he could go back, know then what he knew now.

His last, ragged breath escaped into the silence of the room, followed by darkness.

Then, a jarring burst of music blared.

"Never Gonna Give You Up" by Rick Astley.

His eyes snapped open.

This wasn't the nursing home.

He sat on a worn vinyl couch, the familiar smell of coffee and exhaust fumes filling the air.

His hands were strong, unblemished by age.

A calendar on the wall screamed June 1988.

He was young.

He was back.

And then Brenda walked in, her deceptive sweetness a sharp contrast to the calculating gleam in her eyes.

She spoke of the GM position, his promotion, and how he should withdraw for Rick.

But this time, he knew everything.

He had a chance to rewrite his fate.