Howard's words hung in the cold February air. The silence on the porch stretched for an eternity. From inside the house, they heard a chair scrape against the kitchen floor.
The open window had allowed Margaret to hear it all.
The kitchen door opened. Margaret stood there in the doorway, her face pale, arms wrapped around herself as if trying to hold something together that threatened to break apart.
"Inside," she said. Her voice was tight but controlled. "All of us. Now."
Jack and Howard exchanged a glance. They followed her back into the warm kitchen. Margaret stood by the sink, gripping the edge of the counter. Her back was to them for a long moment before she turned around.
"Ten thousand pounds," she said quietly. "Everything we have. Everything we've saved for fifteen years."
"Margaret—" Howard began, but she held up a hand.
"I heard it all. The window was open." She looked at Jack, and her eyes were red-rimmed but dry. "You're asking us to gamble our entire future on a Formula 3 team. A team that might fail. That probably will fail. Everything we know about racing, startups, and young men with big dreams says it will."
Jack opened his mouth, but Margaret continued.
"But what worries me more than the money, Jack, is what you're throwing away. You have a secure position at Brabham. A steady income. A future in engineering that doesn't demand gambling everything on one desperate venture. And for what? So you can say you tried? So you can look back when you're forty and tell yourself at least you gave it a go?"
She took a shaky breath, her knuckles white against the counter edge.
"I don't care about having luxuries. I never have. But I care about knowing we can eat next month. I care about knowing your father can retire someday without having to work himself into the ground. I care about knowing that if something goes wrong, if you get hurt or sick, we're not destitute."
"That's what this money represents, Jack. Not wealth. Security. The thing that lets you sleep at night without wondering if the next disaster will destroy everything you've built."
She looked at Howard, then back to Jack.
"So here's what I need to hear from you right now, before we even consider this. Not in a year, not when you're 'ready.' Right now. I need to hear how you're going to protect your future, not just ours. How you're going to make sure that when this dream doesn't work out—and Jack, most of them don't—you haven't burned every bridge behind you."
"I need to hear how you're going to make sure your father doesn't have to live through losing another friend, or his son, to a racing accident. How you're going to make sure that in ten years, we're not all worse off because you gambled away the one stable thing you had."
Jack felt the weight of her fear, her legitimate terror wrapped in maternal protection. He thought about his previous lifewhere he'd been so consumed by work that he'd neglected his family. His relentless pursuit of engineering perfection had cost him relationships, had made his family suffer through his obsession.
He couldn't—wouldn't—do that again.
"I promise you," Jack said, his voice steady despite the emotion churning in his chest, "that I will return the principal before the end of the year. Every penny of that ten thousand pounds. Whether the team succeeds or not, whether I find sponsors or not, you'll have your money back."
"How?" Margaret asked. "How can you possibly promise that?"
"Because I won't touch that money until I have other capital secured. The ten thousand you give me will be the last money in, not the first capital. And if I can't raise the other thirty thousand with documented commitments, if I can't build a proper business plan that satisfies Dad's conditions, then I'll return your money immediately. It won't sit in some team bank account slowly disappearing into equipment purchases and running costs."
He looked at his father.
"And I promise you, Dad, that I will not make the mistakes you made. I will not put a driver in a car that hasn't been properly developed. I will not rush testing because of schedule pressure. I will not assemble critical components in a garage with inadequate tools and insufficient time."
"I will do this right, or I will not do it at all."
Howard's expression was unreadable, but his eyes shifted.
"And most importantly," Jack continued, looking at both of them, "I promise I will not make my family suffer for my ambition. I will not put that burden on you. If this starts to consume me, if it starts to hurt our relationship or your security, I'll walk away. The team isn't worth losing my family over."
The last sentence came out with more emotion than he'd intended—a weight from a life they knew nothing about, from failures and regrets that belonged to someone else's timeline.
Margaret's eyes filled with tears.
"You mean that?" she whispered.
"I mean every word."
Howard stood up slowly. He walked to Margaret and took her hand. She searched his face, and her shoulders sagged with resignation, not relief.
"You've already decided, haven't you?" she asked Howard quietly. "You're going to give him the money."
"I think..." Howard squeezed her hand. "If we don't support him, he'll do it anyway. He'll find the money somewhere, somehow, and he'll do it without our guidance or our conditions. At least this way, we have some control. Some say in how it's done."
"Or we're just enabling him to throw away the one secure thing he has."
"Maybe," Howard admitted. "But he's our son, Margaret. And sometimes being a parent means taking risks we'd never take for ourselves."
Margaret closed her eyes. A single tear escaped down her cheek. When she opened them again, something had changed: not acceptance, but an exhausted surrender.
"I don't like this," she said. "I hate this. But..." She looked at Jack. "If you promise—truly promise— not to put yourself or others at risk..." She trailed off, unable to finish.
"I promise," Jack said firmly.
Howard released Margaret's hand and walked to the small desk in the corner of the kitchen. He pulled out a checkbook, sat down, and began to write. The only sound was the scratch of pen on paper.
He tore the check out, looked at it for a long moment, and then stood. He placed the paper into Jack's hand.
Ten thousand pounds. Payable to Jack Hartley. Dated February 12, 1976.
"This represents fifteen years of our lives," Howard said quietly. "Every penny your mother and I saved, every sacrifice we made, the price of choosing security over comfort. You hold our future in your hands now, Jack. Don't waste it."
Jack stared at the check, the numbers swimming slightly as his eyes welled. He folded it carefully and put it in his wallet.
"I won't," he said. "I swear it."
Margaret turned back to the sink, gripping the edge again. Her shoulders shook slightly. Howard went to her, wrapping his arms around her from behind. She leaned back into his chest as silent tears fell.
Jack stood there, feeling like an intruder in their grief. He held a piece of paper that represented everything they'd built together.
"I should go," he said quietly. "Let you both be—"
"No," Margaret said, her voice thick but firm. She wiped her eyes and turned around, still within Howard's embrace. "No. You'll stay the night. Your room is ready. And tomorrow, before you leave, we'll have a proper breakfast together. If we're doing this—taking this risk on your future—then we're going to do it as a family."
Jack woke early the next morning to the smell of bacon and eggs. He lay in bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom. He processed everything that had happened. The check—ten thousand pounds, his parents' entire life savings—was in his wallet on the dresser.
The weight of that responsibility felt crushing.
He got up, dressed, and went downstairs to find Margaret at the stove, cooking breakfast with determined efficiency. She looked tired—clearly hadn't slept much—but she managed a small smile when she saw him.
"Good morning, love. Sit down. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes."
"Mum, you didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did." She cracked another egg into the pan. "Your father's already at the shop. He left early—said he needed to sort some paperwork before you left for Italy."
Jack sat at the kitchen table, watching his mother cook. Morning light streamed through the window. It caught the grey in her hair, the lines around her eyes that spoke of years of worry and work.
"Mum," he said quietly. "I meant what I said last night. All of it."
She didn't turn around. "I know you did, love. That's what makes it so hard. If I thought you were being reckless or careless, I could just say no and feel righteous about it. But you're being thoughtful. You're trying to do this properly. And that means I can't protect you from it."
"You're still angry."
"I'm terrified." She finally looked at him. "But I'm also... I don't know. Proud? Frustrated? Both." She brought the plates to the table and sat down across from him. "Eat. You've got a long journey ahead."
They ate breakfast together in comfortable silence, the kind that comes from years of shared meals rather than awkwardness. It was normal mother-son conversation: Margaret asked about Italy, about what he'd be doing at the Alfa Romeo facility, about whether he'd packed warm enough clothes.
After breakfast, Jack helped with the dishes. Margaret kept finding reasons for him to stay a little longer—adjusting his collar, making him try on an extra jumper she'd bought "just in case," packing sandwiches for his journey even though he insisted he didn't need them.
"I'll be fine, Mum," he said gently.
"I know," she said, but her hands were shaking slightly as she wrapped the sandwiches. "I know you will. Just... write to us from Italy. Let us know you're safe. And Jack?" She looked up at him. "Don't work yourself to death trying to prove something. You've already proven you're brilliant. Now prove you're wise."
Jack hugged her—a real hug, not the automatic reflex from when he'd arrived. She held on tight for a moment, then released him with a pat on the back.
"Go on then. Your father will want to see you before you leave."
.............
Jack was standing at the front door, bags packed, when Howard's car pulled up outside. It was a modest Mini, well-maintained but clearly well-used.
"Come on then," Howard called through the window. "I'll drive you to the station."
Jack loaded his bags into the back and climbed into the passenger seat. They drove in silence for the first few minutes. The narrow streets of Breaston gave way to the wider roads leading toward Derby.
Jack asked, "How's Mum really doing?"
"Terrified. But she'll be alright." Howard glanced at him. "She's stronger than she looks. She kept us afloat when I couldn't, after Michael. She'll keep us afloat through this too, whatever happens."
More silence.
"There's an envelope in the glove box," Howard said casually. "Grab it for me, would you?"
Jack opened the glove box and pulled out a thick manila envelope. It was sealed, unmarked, and surprisingly heavy.
"Open it," Howard said.
Jack broke the seal and looked inside. Cash. Stacks of it. He pulled out one bundle, then another, counting rapidly. It was twenty thousand pounds.
"Dad, what—" Jack's voice caught. "Where did this come from? You said you only had ten thousand saved."
Howard kept his eyes on the road.
"The ten thousand I gave you last night? That was from your mother and me. Our savings. What we built together over fifteen years."
He paused.
"This twenty thousand? It's from someone else. From a twenty-three-year-old kid in 1961 who had the same dreams you have. Who wanted to build racing cars, who believed he could do something extraordinary. Who lost everything—his friend, his ambition, his future—because he didn't have enough money, enough support, enough resources to do it properly."
Jack felt his chest tighten.
"I mortgaged the shop," Howard said quietly. "Took out a business loan against fifteen years of good credit. If you fail, Jack, if this doesn't work, we'll lose everything: not just our savings, but our business, everything we've built."
"Dad, no—" Jack's hands were shaking. "You can't—I can't accept this—"
"You can and you will." Howard's voice was firm. "Because that young man in 1961 never got a second chance. Never got to prove he could do it right with proper funding. Never got to see if his dreams were worth pursuing or just the fantasies of a fool."
He pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned to face Jack.
"I could't build that racing team, Jack. That chance died with Michael. But you can. And maybe—maybe—if you succeed, it means something. Maybe it means Michael's death wasn't completely pointless. Maybe it means that young man I used to be wasn't entirely foolish for believing he could do something extraordinary."
Howard's eyes were wet.
"So you take that money. You build that team. You do it properly, with enough capital and enough support and enough goddamn caution that no one dies because of careless mistakes. And someday, if God is kind and you're brilliant and the world is just, I want to stand in your team garage at a Formula One race. I want to watch your driver cross the finish line. I want to hold a constructor's trophy—just once in my life—and know that it meant something."
Jack couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The weight of thirty thousand pounds—in cash, in expectations, in dreams, and in grief—was crushing.
"Dad, I..."
"Don't thank me," Howard interrupted. "Just don't waste it. Don't waste Michael's death. Don't waste that young man's dreams. And most importantly, don't waste your own potential by being reckless or careless or stupid."
He put the car back in gear and pulled back onto the road.
They drove the rest of the way to Derby station in silence, but it was a different kind of silence now. Heavy with promise, obligation, and love.
When they pulled up to the station, Howard helped Jack with his bags. They stood on the platform, the envelope of cash now securely in Jack's inner jacket pocket, the weight of it literally and figuratively heavy against his chest.
"I'll write," Jack said, his voice rough. "From Italy. And I'll pay you back. Every penny. I swear it."
"I know you will." Howard pulled him into a hug—brief but fierce. "Now go. Make something of yourself. Make something that matters."
He released Jack, turned, and walked back to train station without looking back.
Jack stood on the platform, watching the Mini drive away, and finally let the tears come. He turned toward the entrance of the train car, gripping his bags, overwhelmed by what had just happened.
These weren't the people he remembered just from memory he recieved in this timeline. They weren't placeholders or strangers wearing familiar faces.
They were his parents.
Howard and Margaret Hartley had just gambled everything they owned—their savings, their business, their entire future—on believing in him.
He wasn't an impostor anymore. Wasn't a time-traveler occupying someone else's body.
He was their son.
And he would not let them down.