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In Noah's mind, a bright future, respect, a good life—none mattered more than a street race or a night out.
He wanted a mom like Chloe who gave him "freedom"?
Well, I hope he doesn't regret it.
Seeing me sign, the teacher jumped up: "How can a mother do this? You're ruining him!"
Noah jumped too—with joy.
"Love you, Mom! Knew you'd understand!"
He kissed my cheek, then ran off happily.
I knew street thugs were waiting—they'd hit the arcade, play pool, race, drink.
When Noah ran out of money, he'd ask me, steal from home, or shake down weaker kids.
Before, I'd threatened to cut my own fingers off if he skipped school.
Now, whether he got killed in a fight or jailed—not my problem.
The scene twisted again—the teacher's complaints faded.
This time, I was home a decade earlier.
Seven-year-old Ethan dragged a huge suitcase, face smeared with tears and snot.
The sight should've been funny—but I felt nothing.
Ethan wiped his eyes—no childlike innocence, just hatred.
"I'm going to find Chloe! If you stop me, I'll call the cops on you!"
Same threat as before.
Chloe had visited once, seen him struggling with his walker, and said:
"If I were your mom, I wouldn't make you suffer. What's wrong with a wheelchair?"
Ethan took it to heart.
He forgot how his brothers mocked him when he couldn't walk.
He forgot how happy he was when he finally took his first steps alone.
Just yesterday, he'd told me: "Mom, if I keep practicing, I'll run soon. When you're old, I'll carry you."
But today, he refused the walker, demanding to go to Chloe after one meeting.
"Dad likes Chloe, not you. I like her too—I don't want you!"
Hearing it again, I didn't hurt—I felt good.
I agreed cheerfully, even held the door open.
"Go ahead. Go to your dad and Chloe. Don't come back."
Ethan looked surprised at first.
He dragged his suitcase out tentatively — when I shut the door, he actually smiled.
"Yay! I'm going to Dad and Chloe!"
His little steps wobbled, but he hurried away eagerly.
I watched through the crack until he disappeared, then finally relaxed.
Go on. Go to your deadbeat dad and your toxic "real mom."
Looking around the house, I knew my life here was truly over.
The system asked: "The time-space door home isn't open yet. Want to see how they end up?"
I nodded—the scene changed.
Backstage again, Ethan still in costume—but not a superstar anymore.
His manager yelled: "Is Chloe really your mom? She blabbed about you being disabled as a kid—and selling yourself! You're done!"
Ethan whispered timidly: "She's not my mom—just a clout chaser. When I went to Dad, she made him abandon me. That's why I suffered."
But the manager didn't care—seeing Ethan's long list of scandals trending, he cut ties.
Ethan begged: "You can't drop me! I just debuted—what'll I do?"
The manager kicked him away: "A cripple like you, famous? I only kept you to promote other artists with your 'inspirational' crap!"
"What'll you do? Go back to selling yourself—you've got experience, right?"
Ethan hit his head on the table, bleeding.
Trembling, he couldn't believe his dream was over.
"Why... I was meant to be a star... Why?!"
