Druzella gestured to the folder. “What else?” she asked.
“I’ve seen enough,” Mom replied.
“Whatever he has could be important, Kathleen. Let’s have a look, Mike,” Druzella insisted.
“Please sit, Mom,” I urged, reaching into the folder. Mom sat down while Druzella moved to her other side. “I won’t bore you with the technicalities, but I managed to do something that at the time seemed impossible,” I began. “I emailed myself from the future, backdating the email so I could send evidence in case I forgot what happened to me, and apparently it worked. I pulled the printed copy of a photo from the folder, staring at myself as a man, and then slowly turned the paper around to face them both.
Mom reached for the picture and gazed at it for at least a minute and a half. She began to softly weep and dab at her eyes as she studied the details of my face. When done, she lifted her eyes to mine. “It’s you, Michael,” she whispered.
“You recognize me, Mom?” I asked.
“You’re my son. Of course I recognize my own son,” she stated. “Honey, you are so handsome,” she said, running a finger across my image. “So grown up too, but there’s such sadness in your eyes. What happened?”
“Cooper died, Mom. And to a certain extent, so did I.”
Mom held the page closer, examining the image before handing it to Druzella. “Look at the date on the newspaper,” Mom urged. “August 30th, 2023.” Druzella handed the page back and Mom spent more time looking at the photo. “We put French doors in the kitchen?” she asked. “I love them.”
“We did that in 2021 or 22, I think. You wanted to open the kitchen to the back yard,” I explained.
“Where is the Michael that lived here on June 12th?” Mom suddenly asked. “The Michael from before you got here?”
“What do you mean, Kathleen?” Druzella asked.
Mom looked confused or distressed. Maybe both. “The boy who went to bed on the twelfth right here,” she explained, touching the edge of my bed from her position on the chair. “What about you, Michael? Did you switch places?”
“I’m not sure, Mom,” I responded. “I know less than you do.”
“Who will be here if you leave? Are you leaving?” she asked, the reality of my disclosure finally hitting her. “Is he leaving, Druzella? Who’s left when he does?”
“We have no way of knowing that answer,” Druzella answered. “I’m not sure if Mikecanleave to be honest.”
“Michael?” Mom asked. “But you’re really twenty-eight, correct?”
I nodded a confirmation.
“Do you want to live here in this house as a twenty-eight year old?”
“I’m not sure I have that choice, Mom.”
Mom looked past me, staring at something only she could see in her mind. The woman I knew as rock solid, the epitome of optimism and positivity, was completely perplexed.
“I’ve lost ten years with my only child,” she said. She returned her gaze to me. “And you’ve gained ten years.”
“You haven’t lost ten years, Kathleen,” Druzella reassured. “Mike has ten years of experience that you aren’t aware of, but you’ll still have the years ahead with him.”
“I don’t want you to be stuck here, honey,” she stated, reaching for my hand. “That wouldn’t be fair.”
“I made my decision, Mom. I wanted to see Cooper again. I wanted to spend more time with him and with you.”
Watching her face as understanding of what I said dawned on her, was gut wrenching.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, studying my face. “I died too, didn’t I?”
“Mom?” I whispered, choking up. “You said no information about you.”
“Why else would I have done this?” she asked, making more of a statement than asking a question. “You were about to tell me you divorced. Knowing me I waited until your marriage ended, didn’t I?” Mom looked at Druzella before placing her hands over her face and leaning forward to let out a devastating sigh. “You were without him. All those years without your Cooper. Of course, I wanted you to be happy. Why else would I have done this?” she repeated, her voice muffled due to her hands over her mouth.
I bent over, touched her arm and encouraged her to look at me. “You gave me a wonderful gift, Mom. A gift I will forever be grateful for. Thank you for this.”
