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.

The cheap fluorescent light hummed, a dull counterpoint to the beeping of a distant monitor.

Michael Thompson lay in the narrow bed, his breath shallow, skin papery thin over sharp bones.

This nursing home smelled of antiseptic and despair.

He was fifty-eight, but felt a hundred. Alone.

Brenda was gone. Died a year ago.

On her deathbed, her voice was a rasp, but her words cut deeper than any knife.

"Michael," she' d whispered, a strange, almost triumphant smile on her lips. "The children... David and Sarah... they' re not yours."

He' d stared, his mind refusing to process.

"They' re Rick' s," she continued, her eyes glinting. "Rick Donovan. It was always Rick."

Rick. His rival. The man he despised. The man she supposedly hated alongside him.

His entire life, a lie.

His promising career as a mechanic, then Service Manager at Metro Motors, sacrificed. For her. For their family.

She' d wanted more money, a bigger house, so he' d stayed, chasing promotions he didn't get, while his dream of opening his own shop gathered dust.

She' d drained him emotionally, financially.

And the children, David and Sarah, the ones he' d raised, loved, provided for.

After Brenda' s confession, after her funeral, they' d been efficient.

Lawyers. Papers. His assets, carefully built, signed away.

Then, this place. They never visited.

He closed his eyes. Regret was a bitter acid in his chest.

If only... if only he could do it over. Know then what he knew now.

A final, ragged breath.

Darkness.

Then, noise.

Loud. Annoying. Music.

"Never Gonna Give You Up" by Rick Astley blared from a tinny radio.

Michael' s eyes snapped open.

He wasn' t in the nursing home.

He sat on a worn vinyl couch. A Formica table in front of him held a half-eaten donut and a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

The breakroom at Metro Motors. He knew it instantly. The smell of stale coffee and exhaust fumes.

His hands. He held them up.

Smooth skin. Strong fingers. No liver spots. No tremor.

He touched his face. No wrinkles. Hair, thick.

He scrambled up, knocking the coffee. It splashed, hot, on his pants.

He barely felt it.

A calendar hung crookedly on the wall, a cheesy picture of a Corvette above the dates.

June 1988.

The red circle was around today' s date: Tuesday, June 7th.

June 7th, 1988.

Weeks before Mr. Harrison would announce the new General Manager.

Weeks before Rick Donovan got the promotion. The promotion that cemented Brenda' s victory and Michael' s long, slow decline.

He was back.

He was young.

He had a chance.

The door to the breakroom creaked open.

Brenda walked in.

She was young too, vibrant, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed, her blue eyes, which he once thought were full of love, now looked calculating.

"Michael, there you are," she said, her voice sweet, the same sweetness that had fooled him for decades.

"Mr. Harrison is going to make his decision soon. About the GM position."

He just stared at her. The woman who would destroy him.

"I was thinking," she continued, moving closer, placing a hand on his arm. "Maybe you should talk to Mr. Harrison. Tell him you' re withdrawing your name."

He felt the familiar pressure, the start of her manipulation.

"Rick needs this, Michael. You know he' s done so much for us, those little favors..."

She squeezed his arm.

"It would be better for everyone. For our marriage."

A subtle threat. The same one she' d used before.

But this wasn't the old Michael.

This Michael knew everything.

Michael pulled his arm away from Brenda' s touch.

Her smile faltered for a split second.

"No," he said. His voice was flat, cold.

Brenda blinked. "No? Michael, what are you talking about? We discussed this."

"We didn't discuss anything, Brenda," Michael stated. "You told me what you wanted. Like always."

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't be difficult, Michael. This is important for Rick. And what's good for Rick is good for us."

"Good for you and Rick, you mean," Michael corrected.

The color drained slightly from her face. "What are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything," he said, his gaze steady. "I know about you and Rick Donovan. I know you want him to get that GM position, and you'll do anything to make it happen."

Brenda scoffed, trying to regain her composure. "That's ridiculous. You're being paranoid. Rick is your colleague, a friend."

"A friend?" Michael let out a short, harsh laugh. "Is that what you call the man you're sleeping with?"

Brenda recoiled as if struck. "How dare you!"

"I dare because it's the truth," Michael said, his voice rising slightly. "I'm not withdrawing my name, Brenda. I'm going for that promotion."

"You'll ruin everything!" she hissed, her sweet facade crumbling. "Our marriage..."

"What marriage?" Michael shot back. "The one where my wife is in love with another man? The one where she plans to ensure he gets promoted over me? That marriage?"

He saw panic flicker in her eyes, quickly masked by anger.

"You wouldn't dare divorce me," she said, her voice low and threatening.

"Try me," Michael said, his tone final. "I'm not the fool I once was. I won't be your stepping stone, and I certainly won't be Rick Donovan's."

He turned and walked out of the breakroom, leaving Brenda standing there, stunned and furious.

The air in the service bay felt cleaner, fresher than it had in years.

He had drawn his line. The game had changed.

Over the next month, Michael threw himself into his work as Service Manager. He knew his stuff, and he made sure Mr. Harrison saw it.

He also watched.

Brenda was a whirlwind of activity, always smiling, always charming.

He saw her talking animatedly with Mr. Henderson, the Parts Manager, who suddenly started finding rare components for Rick' s pet projects.

He saw her having a long lunch with Mr. Davies, a junior partner known for his wandering eye. Davies came back looking flushed and overly pleased with himself.

She was working her magic, just like he knew she would.

The day of the announcement arrived.

Mr. Harrison called a staff meeting.

"After much consideration," Mr. Harrison began, his eyes sweeping over Michael and then Rick, "I've decided the new General Manager of Metro Motors will be... Rick Donovan."

A polite applause, led enthusiastically by Brenda, who beamed at Rick.

Rick stood, a smug, triumphant grin spreading across his handsome face. He caught Michael' s eye and gave a slight, condescending nod.

Michael kept his expression neutral. He' d expected this. This time, it didn't crush him. It fueled him.

That evening, there was a celebratory dinner at a local steakhouse. Michael had to attend.

Brenda sat next to Rick, her hand frequently on his arm, laughing too loudly at his jokes.

Rick, full of cheap champagne and arrogance, made a toast.

"To new beginnings," he said, raising his glass, his eyes finding Michael. "And to those who know when to step aside for better talent."

Later, as Rick walked past Michael' s table, he "accidentally" stumbled, sloshing his red wine down the front of Michael' s clean white shirt.

"Oh, terribly sorry, Thompson," Rick slurred, not sounding sorry at all. Brenda giggled from her seat.

The old Michael would have seethed silently, or mumbled an apology for being in the way.

The new Michael stood up slowly.

He picked up his own glass of ice water.

He looked Rick directly in the eyes.

Then, he calmly poured the entire glass of water onto the plush carpet at Rick' s feet.

"Accidents happen, Donovan," Michael said evenly.

He turned and walked out of the restaurant.

Brenda' s furious shout followed him into the night. "Michael! How could you!"

He didn't look back.