Not My Kids, Not My Life

Not My Kids, Not My Life

Gavin

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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.

Introduction

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.

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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