I was having a good day.
A great day, actually.
I had just told my cheating ex to go rot in a compost pit, thrown his shirts off my balcony like confetti , and strutted out of my building with all the misplaced grace of a wounded flamingo rediscovering its self-respect.
And then a child grabbed my leg.
Grabbed. My. Leg.
Like a koala on caffeine.
"MOM!"
I froze.
The world froze.
Even the pigeons froze.
"Sorry," I said instinctively,because that's how my generation apologizes for oxygen—"I think you have the wrong—"
"Nope!" the kid chirped cheerfully. "You are definitely my mom. I checked the timelines twice."
Timelines.
TIMELINES???
Before I could detach this tiny marsupial from my shin, a shadow fell over us.
A tall one.
A broad one.
A breathtaking one.
I looked up and choked on my own vows of lifelong celibacy.
The man was... stupidly pretty. Offensively beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes you angry at God for playing favourites.
He stared right at me with eyes so sharp I felt my sins rearrange themselves.
"Sorry," he said, voice low enough to send my spine in airplane mode. "My kid tends to be… enthusiastic."
Kid.
HIS kid.
The koala-child chose this moment to tug my sleeve and announce loudly,"Dad, she's confused again."
Again???
WHAT DO YOU MEAN AGAIN???
"I'm sorry," I squeaked, pointing at myself. "But just to be clear, I am a virgin. Like, embarrassingly. Like, 'couldn't even get to second base in high school' virgin. So unless your child was formed through photosynthesis —"
"Actually," the kid interrupted, raising one tiny finger like they were presenting a PowerPoint, "I'm from the other timeline where you and Dad got together first, fell in love, and then had me. Then things… went wrong. So I came here."
The man's expression twitched. Just a fraction. But enough to say:
This was not news to hum.
My brain short circuited.
"What do you mean things went wrong?" I asked the kid.
The kid tilted their head. "We don't have time. The other you is already in danger."
THE OTHER ME???
I was seconds away from calling the nearest mental hospital when a very unwelcome voice sliced through the street.
"Who is that man," my ex hissed, "and why is that child calling you Mom?"
I didn't even had the emotional bandwidth to deal with him.
The strangers didn't blink.
The man stepped closer—too close, warm, clean, heartbreakingly scented—and said calmly:
"Because she is their mother."
I choked.
The kid nodded like this was normal.
My ex looked ready to explode.
Someone in the crowd started recording on their phone.
And my mouth—my traitorous, chaos-loving mouth—yelled:
"YES. OBVIOUSLY. THAT IS MY CHILD. DUH."
Why.
Why am I like this.
Why is my brain still in beta testing.
The kid beamed.
The man raised a brow.
My ex turned beet red.
Then the kid tugged my hand urgently.
"Mom," they whispered, "we need to go. Before the others find us."
THE OTHERS???
Before I could ask, the man touched my elbow—light, warm, terrifyingly familiar—and murmured:
"You're safer with us."
My heart did something profoundly stupid.
"Wait," I demanded, "where exactly are you taking me—"
A car screeched around the corner.
A black one.
Blacked-out windows.
Radiating the exact energy of people who chase alternate-timeline children.
The kid's eyes widened.
"They found us."
The man's jaw tightened.
"Take her," he told the kid, "and run."
RUN?????
"WAIT—WHAT— I HAVE GROCERIES—"
But the child grabbed my hand, the man grabbed my waist, and three of us bolted down the street like a very confused family unit escaping a Marvel villain.
"WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?" I screamed.
The kid yelled back:
"Because you and Dad messed up the timeline!"
What timeline???
What mistake???
What future???
The man looked at me—breathless, beautiful, infuriatingly composed even while sprinting—and said:
"You're about to remember everything."
Behind us, the black car door slammed open.
A figure stepped out.
And the child whispered—
"Oh no. It's starting."