My Mother's Secret Life ExposedChapter 1

My mother, Joanne, was dying. Stage four lung cancer.

Because she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my father and me behind to navigate a world without her, she decided to take us with her. She slipped crushed Ambien into our Sunday roast, sealed the windows of our suburban home, and turned on the gas.

But when my eyes opened, I wasn’t in the afterlife. I was eighteen again, back in the year I was supposed to leave for college.

There was just one catch: Joanne and I had swapped souls.

“It doesn’t matter,” Joanne whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of terror and relief as she looked at her own middle-aged reflection in the hallway mirror. “As long as we’re alive. We can start over. We can fix everything.”

She actually thought this was a second chance at her "perfect" life.

I looked down at my—her—wrinkled hands and felt a cold, sharp smile spread across my face. I wasn't going to let her have it. I was going to burn her world to the ground.

* * *

“6:00 AM: Drive Riley—that’s me now—to school.”

“9:00 AM: Go to your mother-in-law’s. Clean the house, do the laundry, and remember to call her ‘Ma’ with a smile.”

“12:00 PM: Bring lunch to Arthur at the office. He likes the steak medium-rare, no exceptions.”

“3:00 PM: Go to the sports bar and help your brother, Benny, with the bookkeeping. He’s struggling.”

“6:00 PM: Pilates with Meredith. She’s your best friend—don't forget that. Be supportive.”

“8:30 PM: Pick up Riley and Meredith’s daughter, Skylar, from their SAT prep. Have snacks ready in the car. Drop Skylar off at Meredith’s house afterward.”

Joanne went on and on, detailing every pathetic minute of her self-imposed martyrdom. She spoke with the frantic intensity of a woman who believed that if she just followed the schedule, if she just kept the "dignity" of the family intact, everything would be okay.

She was obsessed with appearances. Even with a second life, she couldn't let go of the mask.

“So,” I said, cutting her off. I didn’t look at her notes. I pointed at the clock on the kitchen wall. “What are you supposed to be doing right now?”

Joanne flinched, her—my—young shoulders hunching forward. “It’s 9:20 PM. I should be in my room doing a practice Calculus BC exam.”

“Then get upstairs,” I snapped. My voice, her voice, sounded like a whip crack. “What are you waiting for?”

She jumped. I wanted her to feel it—the weight of the hierarchy she had built. I wanted her to know exactly who was in charge now.

Joanne timidly pushed the notebook full of "life instructions" toward me and scurried off to my old bedroom. I didn’t even glance at the pages. I tossed the whole thing into the kitchen trash, right on top of the coffee grounds and eggshells.

I didn’t need a schedule. I didn’t need dignity. I needed to go scorched earth.