The apartment door might as well have been the entrance to a confessional. Five-fifteen PM, two hours later than my usual return—in either timeline. The handle felt cold beneath my fingers, its familiar scratch marks mapping a history that suddenly seemed both permanent and mutable. Inside, my mother waited with a fury born of fear and love, the same combination that had driven her to work double shifts and clip coupons by midnight light.
When I finally pushed through, she sat at the kitchen table, still in her hospital scrubs, a cup of coffee gone cold before her. The scene was so familiar it ached—the same tableau that had preceded every serious conversation of my youth. But this time, her eyes held something I'd been too young to recognize before: not just anger, but bone-deep exhaustion.
"They called from school," she said, her voice carefully controlled. "A missed test. Missed classes. No note, no call." She lifted her cup, then set it down without drinking. "I left work early. Called in a favor to switch shifts. Thought maybe you were hurt, maybe—" She broke off, and I saw the moment her imagination had gone to those dark places every Bronx mother feared.
The weight of my future knowledge pressed against my chest. In my original timeline, this conversation had ended in shouting, in slammed doors, in words I'd regretted through decades of therapy. I'd been too young then to understand that her anger was armored fear, that every boundary she set was a sandbag against the flood of possibilities that could sweep her only child away.
"I'm sorry, Ma." The words came out in my seventeen-year-old voice, but carried the weight of my thirty-five years of understanding. "I should've called. Should've let you know I was safe."
She looked up sharply at my tone, her eyes searching my face. "Where were you?"
"Making music," I said, then quickly added, "With Derek. At Rico's studio." I set my backpack down and pulled out the CD we'd finished. "Not just playing around. Really making something."
"Marcus." Her voice held warning, but also something else—uncertainty, perhaps, at this unfamiliar version of her son. "We talked about this. Your education—"
"Is still my priority," I interrupted gently, taking the seat across from her. "I'll make up the test. Talk to Mr. Peterson tomorrow, first thing. But Ma..." I leaned forward, choosing my words with the care of a lyricist. "What if I could do both? What if music isn't just a dream, but a way to make everything else possible?"
She started to speak, but I pressed on. "Rico heard what we made today. He's giving us a chance to show him more. Real studio time, maybe even management." I saw the protest forming and added quickly, "After school hours. And I'll keep my grades up. I promise."
"Promises are easy," she said, but the edge had softened in her voice. "Following through—that's where people usually fail."
"Usually," I agreed, thinking of all the promises I'd made and broken in my first journey through these years. "But not this time."
Something in my tone made her look at me again, harder. "You're different today," she said slowly. "Something's changed."
If she only knew. But instead of answering directly, I stood and moved to the kitchen counter, pulling out ingredients for dinner. In my other life, we'd ordered pizza this night, adding to the credit card debt that would take her years to clear. Small changes, I reminded myself. The butterfly effect wasn't just about grand gestures.
"Let me cook tonight," I said, reaching for the pots with a confidence I definitely hadn't possessed at seventeen. "You should rest before your night shift."
She watched me move around the kitchen—our kitchen, still whole, still untouched by the future I remembered. "Since when do you know how to cook?"
"YouTube tutorials," I said, the same excuse I'd given Derek. Amazing how useful that explanation was in 2004, when online learning was still novel enough to explain almost any sudden skill. "Been watching them during lunch break. Figured it was time I started helping out more."
The silence that followed was heavy with unasked questions. Finally, she stood and moved beside me, watching as I diced onions with the precision of someone who'd spent years cooking for himself after losing her.
"Your father used to talk about music," she said quietly. "About making it big, changing the game. Right up until the day he walked out."
I stilled, knife hovering above the cutting board. In my original timeline, this comparison to my father had sparked our worst fight yet. But now, with the perspective of years, I heard what I'd missed then—not accusation, but fear. Fear of losing another person she loved to the siren song of dreams.
"I'm not him," I said softly. "I'm not leaving, Ma. Everything I want to build—it's not just for me. It's for us. For the whole community." I turned to face her, letting some of my future self show through. "Give me a chance to prove it. Please."
She studied me for a long moment, and I wondered if mothers possessed some special ability to see through time itself. Finally, she reached up and straightened my Yankees cap, a gesture so achingly familiar that my throat tightened.
"Two weeks," she said. "Keep your grades up, don't miss any more classes, and we'll talk about this studio thing again." She paused, then added, "And next time, call me. No matter what."
"Yes, ma'am." I turned back to the onions, blinking against their sting—just the onions, I told myself, nothing more.
Outside our window, the evening train rumbled past, its rhythm blending with the sounds of children playing, car stereos thumping, lives being lived in all their complex harmony. Somewhere out there, gears were turning that would change the music industry forever. Somewhere, a young woman named Beyoncé was reshaping pop culture one performance at a time. And here, in a small Bronx kitchen that smelled of sautéed onions and second chances, I was rewriting the score of my own life, one careful note at a time.
My mother took down plates from the cabinet—the blue ones, I remembered with a pang, that would break during the move after her diagnosis. But that future wasn't written yet. None of it was.
This time, I'd compose a different ending.