The world around you returns not with a rush but a crawl—soft, blurring light washing over your eyelids, warmth against your skin, and a mechanical hum that thrums deep within your ears. You aren’t sure how long you’ve been out. Minutes? Hours? Days? But something is different this time. There’s a stillness now, a quiet that wasn't there before.
“Tim?” A voice—low, cautious, familiar.
Your vision starts to stabilize as your eyes flutter open. The ceiling is a muted cream, slightly textured, lined with fluorescent panels casting an even, impersonal glow. It’s the same hospital room. The same dull sterility. But something about the atmosphere feels... heavier.
Your throat is dry, painfully so, and your limbs feel like they’ve been filled with wet sand. You try to speak, but it comes out as a croak. You blink slowly, noticing movement to your left. A figure in a chair. Not a nurse. Not a doctor.
“Dad?” you rasp, barely recognizing your own voice.
Peter Connors—your father—rises from the seat beside you, his eyes red-rimmed and tired. His usually strong, pragmatic expression is gone, replaced with a look you’ve only seen a handful of times in your life. He looks broken. But he’s here. Which means…
You try to sit up—instinct more than thought—but the pain comes rushing back with a vengeance. A thousand tiny knives under your ribs. You wince, gasping.
“Hey, hey—don’t push it, son.” He’s beside you in an instant, hands gently keeping you down. “You're okay. You're safe. You're just... recovering.”
Recovering. Right.
The last thing you remember is shouting—screaming, really—about the transplant. About Mom. Miss Card. The body. Then the pain. Then black.
“You had a reaction,” he says softly, answering the question forming in your mind. “Some kind of panic-induced episode. Your heart... well, they said it got pretty close.”
You stare at him, your lips trembling slightly as your mind reels through everything again. That voice. That awful conversation. That final gut-punch: Miss Card. Her body. Your mom’s consciousness. Gone was Jennifer Connors, and now the world would only know Laura.
“Where is she?” you whisper, even though every part of you is afraid of the answer.
Your dad's mouth twitches, then presses into a firm line. “She’s... just down the hall. She’s resting.”
Something about the way he says that doesn’t sit right. Resting? Like she’s sleeping? Or—?
“No, no—she’s fine,” he adds quickly, seeing your expression shift. “She’s... awake. Just resting. The doctors... they said the adjustment period could be harder than they thought. Physically, she’s stable. But mentally... emotionally...” He trails off, shaking his head.
A silence hangs between you, thicker than before. You're not sure what to say. You aren't even sure what you're feeling. Fear? Anger? Relief? Grief? It's all crashing over you at once. The room feels colder now. The sterile sheets tighter. You can still picture her—your teacher—Miss Card, standing at the whiteboard, laughing, leaning forward, completely unaware of the attention she drew from half the boys in the room. And now... now that body was your mother's prison.
“I need to see her,” you say hoarsely.
Your father hesitates. “Are you sure?”
You look at him sharply. “What kind of question is that?”
He sighs, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “She asked to see you too. But Saunders... he wanted to give you time first. And her. She... she hasn’t exactly looked at herself yet.”
You freeze. “Wait. What?”
“She won’t look in the mirror, Tim.” His voice cracks at the edges. “She knows, of course. She knows she’s in Laura’s body. But she’s refused to see it for herself. She keeps asking for you, though. Keeps saying she needs to hear your voice. Says it’s the only thing that still feels real.”
You don't know how to respond to that. Your chest aches, your heart thudding with equal parts dread and guilt. She needs you—but what you need, what you’re ready for, feels like something entirely different.
Still, your hands slowly move to the sides of the bed, your fingers curling over the rails. “Help me up,” you say.
Your dad looks like he wants to argue, to protect you a little longer from the reality waiting just down the hall—but something in your expression shuts him down. He nods, moving to call the nurse.
Minutes later, you’re in the wheelchair again, bundled in a blanket and still feeling weaker than you care to admit. As the nurse wheels you down the corridor, the halls seem endless. You recognize none of the faces you pass. Everyone feels like they’re moving too slowly. Or maybe you’re just desperate to get it over with.
Finally, you stop. A plain white door. No window. Room 207.
Your father stands beside you, one hand resting on your shoulder.
“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. Just being there... that’s enough for her right now.”
You nod, unable to speak.
The nurse opens the door.
It’s dim inside. Soft lights. Quiet. A small table with untouched water. The hum of a monitor in the corner.
And her.
She’s sitting upright in bed, wearing a loose hospital gown over that impossible body you remember. Long auburn hair spills over her shoulders in loose curls. Her face is turned away, half-hidden by her hand. She's breathing slowly. Rhythmic. Controlled.
But then she turns.
And her eyes—those soft brown eyes you’ve known your whole life, even if they now rest in a face that doesn’t belong to them—lock with yours.
“Timmy?” she says, voice trembling, unfamiliar. Higher, smoother, lighter.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
She smiles faintly, though it falters almost immediately. Her hands fidget in her lap. That simple movement draws your eyes again to the wrongness—the elegance of her arms, the curve of her neck, the way the gown hugs her too-young, too-firm figure.
“I know this is strange,” she whispers. “But I’m still your mom.”
Your chest feels tight again. But not like before. Not sharp. Just... heavy. You nod, just barely.
“I don’t know how to be this woman,” she continues, her voice cracking now. “I don’t even want to be. But I’m here. And I’m trying.”
And then she says it again.
“I’m still your mom.”
And that’s when you finally speak.
“I know,” you whisper, eyes stinging. “I know.”
You don’t move. She doesn’t either.
But for a moment—just one small, shattering moment—you both breathe again.
And somehow, that’s enough. For now.
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