Back to Eighteen, I Met My Teenage Son Instead of My Ex

Back at eighteen, I found myself sitting next to the school rebel once again.

He still hated studying. He spent classes sleeping, skipped school to play basketball, and slipped away to the local internet cafe the second he got a chance.

Unlike my past life, I didn't chase after him to nag.

Until one day, I caught a glimpse of the parent signature on his test paper. Two elegant, sweeping words caught my eye: John.

I froze in my tracks.

So, John's son and mine was already this big?

When I saw that signature, my mind went completely blank. The bad boy sitting next to me wasn't John after all. It was his son.

I finally understood what the system meant by "returning to correct the timeline."

Years ago, I transmigrated into this world and personally dragged a rebellious delinquent to the pinnacle of success. That boy had been John. After I left, I heard he did incredibly well for himself, achieving wealth and fame at a young age. Believing my mission was fully complete, I had returned to my original world in peace.

Who would have thought that years later, his son would follow in his footsteps? The kid had even surpassed his old man, becoming the town's ultimate troublemaker.

I sighed softly. Now I had to straighten out this little sapling all over again, keeping him from going off the rails and wrecking his future.

When I first left this world, I died in childbirth. The system had never told me the baby survived.

Time moved differently in my real world. It had only been three years for me, yet the baby I left behind was already a teenager.

Before I could sink deeper into my thoughts, a flash of red burst through the classroom door. The boy stood against the light, tall and lean, with pale skin and sharp features. He sported a shock of vibrant red hair, a gleaming black stud in his ear, and his trademark scowl.

He walked over to me with that same moody expression, his voice cutting through the air like ice. "Move."

I looked up, meeting his dark, heavy gaze, and froze again. He looked so much like John, only taller, colder, and even more defiant than his father ever was.

I quietly stood up to let him pass. Ryder slid into his seat, crossed his long legs, and buried his face in his desk to sleep.

I stared at his profile. This was the first time I had seen him since my return. He hadn't shown his face at school for two weeks. Rumor had it he was either rotting away at the internet cafe or getting into trouble on the streets.

But John was incredibly wealthy. With enough donations to the school, his son stayed enrolled despite everything.

I let out a quiet sigh. A stubborn father and an equally obstinate son. What a handful.

Ryder slept through the entire math class. When the bell rang, he suddenly clutched his stomach, his face pale and strained.

A sudden wave of maternal instinct washed over me. I leaned closer. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

He shot me a sideways glance and spat out a single word: "Beat it."

So rude. How on earth had his father raised him?

My hand moved faster than my brain. Before I could stop myself, I smacked the back of his head. A sharp smack echoed through the room.

The entire classroom fell dead silent. Every eye was pinned on us. My hand hovered in the air, awkward and frozen.

I forced myself to make up a ridiculous excuse. "Ryder, your hair is too bright. It's distracting me from my studying."

Ryder's knuckles turned white. His jaw clenched so hard his face looked rigid, anger burning in his dark eyes. Just as he was about to explode, the warning bell saved me.

The homeroom teacher walked in, catching him with his hand half-raised. "Ryder, do you want me to call your father in for another meeting?"

He swallowed his rage, forcing himself to back down. He slumped onto his desk, radiating pure fury.

The student behind me tapped my shoulder, his glasses practically gleaming with excitement. "No way. You actually made Ryder back down."

I managed a weak smile. Ryder wasn't the type to let things slide. Before he put his hand down, he had leaned in and hissed, "Wait until school ends."

Fine, I would wait. But when the final bell rang, Ryder bolted out the door. He was in such a rush that he left his jacket behind.

I waited and waited until the classroom emptied completely and the security guard started his rounds. Finally, I decided to leave.

I picked up my backpack, but just as I turned to go, the jacket left on his desk began to vibrate. He had forgotten his phone, too. What was this kid in such a hurry for?

I pulled the phone out of his pocket. The screen lit up, displaying a single name: John.

I didn't want to answer it, but the calls kept coming back-to-back. At the very last second, I swiped to answer.

"Where are you?" John's deep voice came through the receiver, heavy and commanding.

"Mr..." I cleared my throat, unable to bring myself to call him by his name. It took a long, burning moment before I managed to find my voice. "Hello, sir. I'm Ryder's..." Before I could finish, he cut me off.

"Tell him to get home. Now." The line went dead. I stood frozen, staring at the screen.

John, are you really still this impatient?

While I was trying to figure out how to return the phone, a text message popped up on the lock screen.

"Hey Ryder, the cake is ready. Come pay for it."

"Ryder, where are you?" An address followed.

I tried to unlock the phone. I tried his birthday. Incorrect. I tried his father's birthday. Incorrect. I tried the dog's birthday. Still wrong.

On a strange whim, I entered my own birthday. The phone unlocked.

A sudden tightness gripped my throat, and my eyes stung with tears. Eighteen years. Even after all this time, someone still remembered me.

I wiped my eyes and headed toward the address.

When I arrived, Ryder and a group of his friends were being ushered out by a furious bakery owner.

The owner pushed him, looking completely disgusted. "Get out of here, you little freeloaders! Kids these days will lie about anything. If you don't have the money, just say so. Don't give me that 'I forgot my phone' crap!"

Seeing their leader insulted, a few of his colorful-haired friends reached for wooden bats, ready to start a fight.

I rushed forward, grabbing Ryder's arm before things could escalate. "Don't fight. I brought your phone."

Ryder stared at me with a complicated expression. Without a word, he took the phone and paid the bill.

The owner's demeanor shifted instantly. He muttered a quick apology and quickly packed the cake.

I stood off to the side, catching the whispered conversations of his friends outside.

"Is that his new girl?"

"Doubt it. He was out with someone else last week."

"They probably broke up. He never keeps a girl for more than a week anyway."

I frowned. Who taught him to be so reckless with people's feelings?

I looked up to see Ryder sitting quietly at a table, meticulously writing on a small card. I assumed he was writing a note for some girl.

But as I stepped closer, my heart stopped.

Happy Birthday, Dad. The words were written, crossed out, and written again, the ink bleeding into the paper.

He didn't know what to say. In the end, he left only a simple line: Wishing you great success, Boss.

A mix of frustration and sorrow washed over me. This boy wasn't nearly as rebellious as he pretended to be. He remembered his father's birthday. He remembered that John hated sweets; the cake had almost no frosting, customized to the lowest sweetness level. He was far more sensitive and caring than I had ever imagined.

Before we left, I looked at him and said softly, "Your dad is waiting for you at home to have dinner." John hated being alone, especially on his birthday. "Go home and keep him company."

Ryder didn't answer. He turned to leave, but then paused, looking back at me. His voice was as soft as a breeze. "Thanks."

Watching his retreating figure, I couldn't help but think of John.

That was a lifetime ago. When John had been a young punk, he was far wilder and rougher than his son. Foolish and untamed. He could never grasp the tutoring material, and the moment his friends called, he would run faster than the wind. Nine times out of ten, I would catch him in that alleyway downtown and drag him back by his collar.

We lived across the hall from each other back then. Once I started tutoring him, his mother gladly handed full authority over to me. She had given me a feather duster. She had used it on him so many times that all the feathers had fallen off, yet he never changed.

By the time it reached my hands, it was just a bare wooden stick. Yet, somehow, that plain stick worked wonders. John was terrified of it. Every time I held it up, he would quietly follow me back to study.

During his senior year, he finally settled down and worked hard, eventually getting into a good college.

The day the results came out, both he and his mother broke down in tears. John held me tight, his tears soaking into my shirt. His quiet thank-you carried a weight that left me breathless. "I'll listen to you from now on," he had whispered.

During our early years together, whenever he stayed up playing video games, I would cut the internet cable. If he skipped class to go to a gaming caf, I would drag him back to the classroom myself.

When he got a fake sleeve tattoo, I grabbed his ear and threatened to scrub it off. He had scrambled to peel off the sticker, begging, "It's fake, it's just a temporary tattoo! Please, I surrender, babe!"

I kept him on a tight leash like that for four years.

By graduation, John had won numerous academic awards and secured recommendation letters from top professors. Everyone knew he had a notoriously strict girlfriend.

But that was the only way. Pulling a delinquent up to the top was never an easy task.

After graduation, he started his own business. Once the company began to grow, his way of blowing off steam became drinking. The pressure was immense, and he spent night after night drowning his stress in alcohol. His medical reports were covered in red ink: severe stomach lining damage, frequent bleeding.

One night, I dragged him out of a bar. Before I could even speak, he violently threw my hand off his arm.

He glared at me, his eyes cold. "Brooke, you're suffocating me. Don't you ever get tired?"

I stared at him, unable to speak. After a long silence, he let out a heavy sigh. "I'm tired, Brooke. These years under your thumb... I'm exhausted."

Tears welled in my eyes, but John no longer had the patience to comfort me. He turned and walked away without another word.

I stood there alone, watching his shadow disappear as tears dripped onto the back of my hand.

I thought about it for a long time after that night. Truth was, during all those years of keeping him in line, he wasn't the only one who was tired. I was exhausted too. I knew what people called me behind my back: overbearing, aggressive, nagging.

I even knew that he had once agreed with those voices in quiet conversations, murmuring, "I'm tired too. I should have ended up with someone gentler."

Once he became successful, his circle expanded, and rumors started finding their way to me, even when I tried to ignore them. I never asked, and he never explained. I simply kept quiet, retreating further and further into my own shell.

Then, I got pregnant. I thought the baby would bring us back to how we used to be.

Until one day, I went to his office to find him. A young girl was sitting there. She looked gentle and sweet, speaking in a soft, timid voice. When she saw me, she scrambled to her feet, her eyes instantly turning red.

I asked her a single question: "How long have you been with him?" She burst into tears of panic.

When John rushed in, his jaw was tight and his fists clenched and unclenched. The look he gave me was heavy and cold. In the end, he said nothing. He simply took my hand in silence and led me home.

That night, he slept in the study. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to close my eyes. Some things didn't need explanations anymore.

At that moment, I made up my mind to leave this world. From eighteen to twenty-six, I had stayed by his side, watching him go from having nothing to having everything. I was done.

I pulled myself back to the present. I finished the last bite of the cake and prepared to leave.

Outside, Ryder's friends were still waiting. When they saw me step out, they crowded around. "Hey, it's getting late. Ryder told us to make sure you get home safe."

I glanced at the flickering streetlights and didn't refuse.

Along the way, their chatter allowed me to piece together what Ryder's life had been like all these years.

"Ryder's actually got it rough. His mom passed away when he was tiny."

"His dad's always working. There's basically no one at home."

"He lives in this massive house, but when he got incredibly sick once, there wasn't even anyone to bring him a glass of water."

My fingers clenched tightly around my backpack straps. John, you absolute jerk. Is this how you took care of my son?

"But Ryder cares a lot about family. Even though his dad ignores him, he still buys him a birthday cake every single year."

"He looks tough, but my mom always says he's actually the most responsible one out of all of us."

I remembered how quickly he shut down in class when the teacher threatened to call his father. He wasn't scared of getting in trouble. He just knew how busy his father was, and he didn't want to force him to clean up his messes.

He dyed his hair red and acted like a rebel just to get his father's attention.

A wave of sorrow hit me, and I squeezed my hands shut.

"Just watch, his dad won't even touch the cake. It's the same every year. Ryder always brings it back the next day for us to eat."

"His dad won't eat a single bite. I don't get how anyone can be that cold."

My chest tightened with a sharp, dull ache. All these years, my baby had been hurting like this.

I tossed and turned in bed that night, unable to shake the image of Ryder's lonely eyes. The pain in my chest made it hard to breathe.

System, I called out in my mind. I want to use one of my chances to see what Ryder is doing right now.

The system had granted me three lifelines upon my return. Once they were gone, I would be forced back to my original world. But I couldn't stop worrying about my boy.

The vision showed Ryder arriving home, holding the cake. He looked toward the figure sitting on the sofa.

A man in a tailored suit sat there, buried in his tablet, not even sparing a glance toward the door.

After a long silence, Ryder tightened his grip on the cake box and called out softly to his father's back, "Dad... I'm home."

He called out twice. No response.

Ryder lowered his gaze, standing in the middle of the foyer, looking completely lost.

My heart shattered into pieces. I wanted nothing more than to break into that room and slap some sense into John. You bastard.

Finally, John put down his tablet and looked back. His gold-framed glasses gave him an air of quiet sophistication. But his eyes were cold, devoid of any warmth. His face remained entirely expressionless even when looking at his own son.

"Let's eat," he said simply. Several dishes were laid out on the table. It was clear he had been waiting for a long time.