Not His Second Choice Anymore

I woke up in 1982, my 22-year-old body buzzing with memories of a 72-year marriage to Mark Johnson.

This was my second chance.

Today was the day Mark proposed in our past life, and my heart beat with familiar hope, ready to relive our perfect love story.

I found him at the town gathering, my heart leaping.

But he wasn't looking for me.

Instead, Mark went straight to Bree Thompson, his confident smile fixed on her.

Then, loud enough for everyone, he asked her out.

My treasured memory, my entire hope, shattered instantly.

That perfect marriage, all those cherished moments, felt poisoned.

He was reborn too, and he clearly wanted someone else.

Public humiliation, malicious accusations, and finally, deliberately snapping my guitar string right before my talent show performance-his cruelty knew no bounds.

My beautiful past was ruined.

Was our entire 72-year marriage a lie?

Was I just a convenient second choice?

The rage and disbelief at this changed man consumed me.

Why was he so intent on destroying me?

Why did he hate the life we' d built?

The confusion was a constant ache.

But defiance sparked.

I sang acapella, winning a demo deal.

Enraged, Mark dropped his charade, spewing venom about how I'd held him back.

"We're done!" I declared, finally seeing the selfish parasite he always was.

This was my true second chance: to embrace my music, my freedom, and my own splendid future.

I woke up, and it was 1982 again.

My name was Sarah Miller, twenty-two years old, living in Oakhaven, Illinois.

This wasn't a dream, I knew it.

The memories of a whole other life were sharp in my head, seventy-two years married to Mark Johnson, my childhood sweetheart.

We grew old together, or so I thought.

He died first, then I followed a year later, my heart finally giving out.

Now, here I was, young again, the calendar on my wall showing June 10th, 1982.

This exact day, in my past life, Mark came home from college and proposed.

My heart beat fast with a familiar hope, a chance to live our perfect love story all over again.

I hummed a little tune, one of the folk songs I' d written in that other life, a life where my music was just a quiet hobby.

Today was the town gathering, a welcome party for the college graduates returning home.

Mark would be there.

I put on my favorite yellow sundress, the one he said made my eyes sparkle.

I remembered that day so clearly, his nervous smile, the small velvet box.

It felt like a precious secret, knowing what was supposed to happen.

The town square buzzed with people, families greeting their returning sons and daughters.

I spotted my mom, Carol, by the lemonade stand, her smile warm as ever.

She waved, and I waved back, my eyes scanning the crowd for Mark.

Then I saw him.

Mark Johnson, looking just as he did back then, handsome, a little self-important with his new college degree.

He was talking, laughing, not looking for me.

My breath caught.

He turned, his eyes swept past me, then landed on Bree Thompson.

Bree, the town sweetheart, pretty and popular, working at the pharmacy's cosmetics counter.

Mark walked straight to her, a confident smile on his face, a smile I hadn't seen directed at me in a long, long time, even in memory.

He said something, and Bree laughed, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

Then, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, Mark said, "Bree, I've been waiting all semester to ask you this. Will you go out with me tonight?"

Bree blushed, "Oh, Mark! I'd love to."

The world tilted.

My perfect memory, my hope, shattered into a million pieces right there on the sun-drenched square.

He didn't look for me, he didn't hesitate.

It wasn't a mistake.

A cold dread washed over me.

He was reborn too.

And he wanted someone else.

My mind flashed back through our seventy-two years.

Seventy-two years I cherished.

I remembered our wedding day, young and hopeful.

The birth of our children, grown now, with families of their own in that other timeline.

Quiet evenings, his hand in mine.

The way he' d hum off-key to my guitar playing.

I thought it was contentment, a deep, settled love.

I had believed in our story, our "perfect" marriage.

Now, watching him charm Bree, a terrible suspicion formed.

His behavior was so different, so bold with her.

With me, in our past life, he'd been... quieter, almost hesitant in the beginning.

This Mark, the one asking Bree out, was confident, almost arrogant.

This wasn't the Mark who fumbled with a proposal to me on this very day.

This was a Mark with a new plan.

My stomach churned.

I had come here expecting a proposal, a repeat of a cherished moment.

I' d replayed it in my mind all morning, the way his eyes would find mine, the way my heart would leap.

Instead, I saw him choose another, publicly, decisively.

The yellow dress felt suddenly wrong, too bright, too hopeful.

The lemonade tasted sour in my mouth.

The happy chatter of the crowd felt like a mockery.

Tears pricked my eyes.

I couldn't breathe.

I turned and ran, away from the square, away from Mark and Bree, away from the ruin of my beautiful, treasured past.

Mom called after me, "Sarah! Honey, what's wrong?"

But I couldn't stop, couldn't speak.

I just ran until I reached home, my lungs burning, my heart a cold, heavy stone in my chest.

I locked myself in my room, the yellow sundress crumpled on the floor.

The image of Mark asking Bree out burned in my mind.

He was reborn too, it was the only explanation.

And he didn't want me.

My seventy-two-year marriage, a lie?

I started to think, really think, about our past life.

Those "significant gestures" from Mark.

Our first offici