The Son I Left Behind

One look at the parent signature on my deskmate's test, and I froze. Peter Kessler? Eighteen again, and once again I was sitting next to a punk.

I thought I'd gone back to the old days. Not until I saw that signature did I realize the boy sitting beside me was my son. Mine and Peter's.

Chapter 1 When I saw the name "Peter Kessler," I froze completely. So the school bully sitting next to me wasn't Peter. He was Peter's son.

At last I understood what the System had meant by "go back and fix the storyline." Years ago, I'd been sent into this world, and with my own two hands I'd hauled a bleachedblond punk all the way to the top.

That punk was Peter. After I left, I heard he'd done extremely well for himself, successful and famous while still young.

I thought my mission was complete, so I went back to my own world with my mind at ease.

Who could have guessed that years later, his son would go into the family business and become a punk himself?

He'd even outdone his father and made himself king of the new generation of punks. I sighed softly. Now I had another sapling to straighten out. I couldn't let him grow crooked.

Couldn't let him grow up to wreak havoc on the world. When I left this world, I left by dying in childbirth. The System never told me the baby survived.

Time moved slowly in the real world. By my count, I'd only been back there three years. But here, that child had already grown this big.

Before I could dwell on it, a flash of red burst through the doorway. The boy stood with the light behind him, tall and straight, his profile hard and cold, his skin very pale.

A head of glaring red hair. A glossy black stud in his ear. That habitual scowl.

Still scowling, he walked up to me, his voice like ice. "Move." I looked up, straight into his dark, dark eyes. Even so, I was stunned for a moment. He looked too much like Peter.

Taller than his dad. Colder than his dad. And even harder to rein in than his dad. I quietly got up and let him have his seat.

Asher swung his long legs in, sat down, and put his head on the desk to sleep. I quietly watched his profile. It was the first time I'd seen him since coming back.

For half a month, he hadn't set foot in school once. Word was that if he wasn't holed up at the arcade, he was out messing around somewhere. But Peter had too much money.

He'd thrown enough of it at the school that his son somehow still hadn't been expelled. I sighed. A pigheaded father and a bullheaded son. What a headache.

Asher slept through an entire math class. When the bell rang, he suddenly clutched his stomach, looking a little off. In an instant, my maternal instincts came flooding out.

I leaned over. "What's wrong? Not feeling well?" The boy slid his eyes toward me and said exactly one word. "Scram." So rude. How on earth had his dad raised him?

My hand moved faster than my brain. By the time I realized what I'd done, my palm had already landed on his head. Smack— The whole class went silent.

Every eye in the room was nailed to us. My hand hung frozen in midair. I couldn't pull it back, and I couldn't leave it there. I forced out a lie. "Asher, your hair's too bright.

It's blinding me while I'm trying to study." Asher's knuckles went white. His face was drawn tight, and his eyes were practically spitting fire.

Just as he was about to explode, the bell rang for class.

The homeroom teacher walked in and saw him with his hand raised. "Asher, do you want me to call your dad in for another talk?" In the end, he didn't dare blow up.

He choked it down and slumped back over his desk, fuming. The kid behind me snuck a tap on my shoulder, his glasses practically gleaming. "Wow.

You actually got one over on Asher." I gave a strained smile. Chapter 2 There was no way Asher would really take that lying down.

Before he dropped his hand, he'd shot me a low, vicious line. "After school. Just wait." Fine. I'd wait. But when school let out, Asher ran off.

He left in such a hurry that he didn't even take his jacket. I waited and waited, until the classroom had emptied out and security had started making their rounds.

I got ready to leave too. I'd just slung my backpack over my shoulder when the jacket he'd left on the desk suddenly started buzzing. He'd even forgotten his phone.

What was this hopeless kid in such a rush for? I pulled the phone out. The screen lit up, and there it was, a name— Peter. I didn't want to answer.

But the calls kept coming, one after another, with no end in sight.

On the last few rings, I answered anyway. "Where are you?" A man's low voice came through the line, heavy with authority. "Mr.…" I cleared my throat. I just couldn't get it out.

After a long moment, my face burning red, I finally worked up the nerve. "Hello, Mr. Kessler. I'm Asher's—" Before I could finish, he cut me off. "Mm.

Please tell him to come home." The line went dead. I stood there holding the phone, stunned. Peter. Are you really that impatient?

Just as I was wondering how to get the phone back to him, messages popped up. [Asher, the cake's ready. Come pay for it.] [Asher, where are you?] An address followed.

I tried a passcode. His birthday. Wrong. His dad's birthday. Wrong. The family dog's birthday. Wrong again. Finally, on some impulse I couldn't explain, I entered my own birthday.

The phone unlocked. My nose stung. In an instant, a raw, prickling ache crept through my whole chest.

So through all eighteen years I'd been gone—someone had never stopped remembering me. I rubbed my eyes and followed the address.

When I got there, the owner was shoving Asher and a pack of his crew out the door.

He pushed at Asher, his face full of disgust. "Freeloading little con artists, get lost!" "Kids these days lie as easy as breathing!" "No money is one thing, but claiming you forgot your phone?!" Seeing their boss get pushed around, his rainbowhaired crew grabbed sticks, ready to start something.

I rushed over and grabbed Asher's arm. "Don't fight. I brought your phone." Asher looked at me. A complicated look. But he took the phone anyway and paid.

The owner's face changed instantly. He apologized over and over and briskly boxed up the cake. I stood off to one side and waited.

Outside, I heard whispering. "Is that Asher's new girlfriend?" "Doesn't look like it.

Asher was taking his girlfriend out to eat just a few days ago." "They probably broke up already. Asher's never gone out with anybody for more than a week." I frowned.

Who taught him to be this irresponsible? I looked up. Asher was sitting up straight, earnestly writing a card. I figured he was sweettalking some girl again. I walked closer.

The moment I could make out the words, I went rigid. "Happy birthday, Dad." He wrote it, then scribbled it out. Scribbled it out, then wrote it again.

The ink soaked through the paper. He didn't know what to write. In the end, all he left was: "Wishing Mr.

Kessler continued success in all his business ventures." I was angry and heartbroken at the same time. This kid. He wasn't nearly as rebellious as he looked.

He remembered his father's birthday. Remembered that he didn't like sweets. The cake had only the thinnest layer of frosting—he'd asked for it barely sweet.

He was far more thoughtful and far more sensitive than I'd imagined.

Before I left, I looked at him and said softly, "Your dad's waiting for you at home for dinner." That man had never liked being alone.

Chapter 3 Especially not on his birthday. "Go home and keep him company." Asher didn't say anything. He started to leave. But he looked back at me anyway.

His voice was as soft as the wind. "Thanks." Watching him walk away, I couldn't help thinking of Peter. That was a long, long time ago.

The year Peter was a bleachedblond punk, he'd been a lot rougher than his son. Dumb and wild.

He couldn't follow a word of his tutoring, but the second his crew called, he was out the door faster than anyone.

That alley in town—nine times out of ten, that was where I caught him. And when I caught him, I dragged him home. Back then, we lived right across from each other.

Once I started tutoring him, his mom simply handed him over to me entirely. Mrs. Kessler gave me a feather duster.

She'd used it on Peter until every last feather fell out, and he still hadn't changed. By the time it came to me, the feather duster was nothing but a smooth, bare wooden stick.

But even plucked bald, that stick still got the job done. Peter got nervous the second he saw it. Every time, he followed me back to study like a good boy.

In his last year of high school, he finally settled down. In the end, he got into college. The day the acceptance letter came, he and his mom both cried.

Peter held me tight, his tears splashing onto my clothes. That single thankyou weighed more than words could say.

He said, "From now on, I'll listen to you about everything." The first few years after we got together— Peter got hooked on video games, so I cut his internet cable.

He skipped class to go to the arcade, so I dragged him back to the classroom with a smack.

Later he secretly got a full sleeve tattoo, and I grabbed him by the ear to drag him off to get it removed.

He frantically peeled off the sticker. "It's a sticker, it's just a sticker! Your Majesty, I surrender." That's how it went. I kept him in line the whole way. For four years.

By the time he graduated from college, Peter had swept every award there was and collected recommendation letters from his professors. Everyone knew Peter had a fierce girlfriend.

It couldn't be helped. Hauling a bleachedblond punk to the top was never easy. After graduating, he started his own company.

Once the company took off, his way of blowing off stress turned into drinking. Under heavy pressure at work, he went to bars to get drunk again and again.

His checkup results came back covered in red flags. Damaged stomach lining. Frequent stomach bleeding. That night, I dragged him out of a bar.

Before I could say a word, he flung my hand away hard. His eyes cold, he said it word by word. "Natalie, you're way too controlling." "Aren't you tired?" I looked at him.

A long silence. Finally, he let out a sigh. "I'm tired, Natalie. All these years of you managing me—I'm honestly tired." Tears welled in my eyes.

But Peter no longer had the patience to comfort me. He said nothing, turned, and walked away. I stood there. Tears fell one by one onto the backs of my hands.

When I got home that day, I thought for a long, long time. The truth was, all those years of keeping him in line—it wasn't just him who was tired. I was tired too.

Behind my back, people called me a shrew. A harpy. A savage. I knew all of it. I also knew that he'd once quietly chimed in when they talked. "I'm tired too.

I should've found someone gentler." After he made it big, all kinds of people started turning up around him. Some things I didn't want to know. They reached my ears anyway.

I didn't ask. He didn't explain. I just kept quiet and made myself smaller and smaller. Later, I got pregnant. I thought the baby could take us back to how we used to be.

Until one day, I went to his company to see him. A girl was sitting in his office. Very gentle, very sweet, too timid to even raise her voice.

When she saw me, she scrambled to her feet. Her eyes went red at once. Chapter 4 I asked her only one thing. "How long have you been with him?" And she burst into tears.

When Peter rushed in, his face was set hard, his fingers clenching and unclenching. The look he gave me was heavy and cold. In the end, he said nothing.

He just silently took my hand and brought me home. That night, he slept in the study. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I didn't close my eyes all night.

Some things didn't need explaining anymore. In that moment, I decided to leave this world. From eighteen to twentysix.

I'd stayed by his side from the time he had nothing until the time he had it all. I was tired too. I pulled my thoughts back.

I finished the last bite of my little cake and got ready to leave. Outside the door, Asher's crew still hadn't left.

When they saw me come out, the whole bunch crowded around. "Hey, it's late. Asher told us to walk you home." I glanced at the dim streetlights. I didn't say no.

Along the way, I pieced together what Asher's life had been like all these years from what they told me. "Asher's actually kind of pitiful.

His mom passed away a long time ago." "His dad's too busy.

Nobody at home looks out for him at all." "That huge penthouse, and when Asher was so sick he almost died, nobody even brought him a glass of water." My fingers curled tighter and tighter.

Peter. You bastard.

Is this how you take care of my son? "But Asher cares a lot about people." "His dad ignores him completely, but he still buys his dad a birthday cake every single year." "Asher only looks scary.

Even my mom says he's more grownup than the rest of us." I thought back to class. The moment the homeroom teacher threatened to call his dad in, all the fight went out of him.

It wasn't fear. He knew his dad was busy. He didn't want his dad to keep having to clean up after him. He'd dyed his hair red and played the rebel on purpose.

All just so his dad would look at him a little more. My nose stung again and again. I clenched my fingers tight. "Just watch.

He'll take that cake home, and his dad won't eat it." "It's like this every year.

The next day, Asher brings it back and splits it with us." "A whole cake, and his dad won't touch a single bite." "No idea how anybody can be that cold." My heart twisted into a knot.

It hurt everywhere at once. So all these years—my child had suffered this much. That night, I tossed and turned in bed. All I could think about was how forlorn Asher had looked.

It hurt so much I could hardly breathe. "System.

I want to use one of my chances to see what Asher's doing right now." When I came back, the System had given me three chances to ask for help.

Once I used them up, I'd be forcibly sent back to the real world. But I was too worried about my child. In the image, Asher had just gotten home.

Carrying the cake, he looked at the back of the figure on the couch. A man in a suit sat there. Head down, working. He didn't give him so much as a glance. For a long, long time.

Asher gripped the cake's string tight and called softly to that back. "Dad—I'm home." He called twice. No answer. Asher lowered his eyes. He stood there, looking lost.

Watching it broke my heart to pieces. I wanted nothing more than to charge in there and slap Peter twice. Bastard.

After a long while, Peter finally set down his tablet and turned to look at him. The goldrimmed glasses gave him a steady, composed air.

But his eyes were indifferent, without a trace of warmth.

Even facing his own son, you couldn't find a flicker of emotion on his face. "Let's eat." There were a few dishes on the table. You could tell he'd been waiting a long time.

Asher set down the cake and was about to open it