Chapter 3

3

The next day, Mabel showed up at our house with a huge, fake smile on her face.

"Aunt Cynthia! Thank you so much for saving my daddy! When you're old, I'm going to take care of you like you're my own mother!"

Mabel didn't wait for Cynthia to protest. She grabbed her arm and practically dragged her toward the truck.

I watched the truck disappear down the road, the black exhaust filling the air. For the first time in two lives, I felt like I could finally breathe.

My brother, Silas, walked up behind me and squeezed my shoulder. "Good move, kid."

"About time someone stood up to her," he muttered.

Looking at Silas now, he was full of life and potential. He was seventeen, tall, and had eyes that still held onto his dreams.

He was a world away from the broken man I remembered from the future―the man who spent his days scrubbing floors in a roadside motel, bowing his head to everyone.

Years from now, my dad was supposed to retire from the mill. According to the union rules, he could pass his steady, well-paying job down to his son.

But Terrence had a son, Leo, who was the same age as Silas. Leo was a lazy, good-for-nothing parasite who spent his days drinking and getting into trouble.

My mother decided that Leo needed the job more than Silas. She thought Silas was "sturdy" enough to figure something else out.

She secretly forged the paperwork, putting Leo's name on the application. When she got caught, she fell to her knees and begged Silas to let it go.

"Your uncle is struggling! He has a son who's heading down a dark path! Just help your family out this once!" she had screamed.

Silas, with tears in his eyes, had agreed to step aside. But it didn't end there.

Later, Leo caused a fatal accident at the mill because he was high on the job. My mother told the police she saw Silas near the machinery that night.

She framed her own son to save her nephew. Silas spent ten years in prison. When he got out, his record was stained, and no one would hire him but that dingy motel.

"Ruby, Mom's gone for the day. Why don't you go fry up that bacon I bought? Let's actually have a decent meal," Silas said, handing me a package of meat.

Cynthia usually intercepted any good food we had and walked it over to Terrence's house. If we ate a chicken without her permission, she'd burn the house down with her screaming.

We had to sneak around just to eat meat in our own home. Our kitchen was ancient, with a wood-burning stove that felt like it belonged in the nineteenth century.

When the county offered grants for gas stoves, my mother took our family savings and gave them to Terrence so he could renovate his kitchen.

"Terrence is a man living alone with a daughter. Cooking is hard for him. He needs the convenience more than we do," she'd said.

Dad had been so furious he threatened to pack his bags. But she cried and made a scene for two weeks until he finally gave in. He always gave in.

I started the fire in the stove, coughing as the smoke billowed out. It was a miserable way to cook.

"That smoke is going to ruin your skin, Ruby. A pretty girl shouldn't be doing this," Nana said, walking in and ushering me away.

She was eighty years old and her bones were brittle, but she never stopped working because my mother was too busy being a servant for her brother.

I tried to take the knife to help her chop the vegetables. "Let me help, Nana. You should rest."

"Get out of here before you cut a finger off," she grumbled, though her eyes were kind. She chased me out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon.

She was always tough on the outside, but she was the only one who truly cared. I used to resent her because of the lies my mother told.

Cynthia told me Nana hated girls and that she refused to buy me milk when I was a baby, which was why I was always sickly.

Later, I found out the truth. Nana had walked miles every day to beg neighbors for goat milk to keep me alive.

My mother had refused to nurse me because Terrence's wife had died during labor. Mabel was a hungry infant, and Cynthia decided Mabel's needs were more important than mine.

I sat on the porch with Silas, helping him weave baskets. It was how Nana made extra money at the local farmer's market.

We worked in silence under the afternoon sun, the smell of frying bacon wafting through the screen door.

"Silas! Ruby! Wash up! Dinner's ready!" Nana called out.

We practically inhaled the food. The bacon and greens tasted better than any five-star meal I could imagine.

"Slow down, you'll choke," Nana said, patting our heads.

I realized then that I had spent years avoiding Nana because of my mother's lies. After my surgery in the past life, Nana was the only one who tried to help me, even though she could barely walk herself.

I shoved a huge forkful of food into my mouth, my tears blurring my vision. I made a silent vow: I would protect Nana this time. I wouldn't let her work herself into an early grave.