text: I have often thought of this moment. I don't know how this is possible. At first, I thought I was dreaming. But I am not. I am here. I pinched myself, slapped my face and tried to yell myself awake as I stumbled through the woods leading to this house. I recognize this house. How can this be? I can't be here. This is not possible. But I am here. My leg confirms this, the familiar ache of a foot broken 15 years ago both comforting and alarming. It is May 24, 1988. My mom, the best person I know, dies tonight. More accurately, she is killed by a drunk driver. The driver comes around a bend in the road on the wrong side, causing a head on collision. My mom and her friend are killed. The driver has not a scratch on him. There is 10 year old me, begging her to not go on this ride with her friend. I remember, 28 years ago, having a bad feeling about her leaving. I remember begging her not go. I remember her assurances all would be well, Rob, and that she'd be home shortly. How often have I missed her? Every day of my life. I've never been mad at her. Never once have I raged against her for leaving. It's not her fault. The driver of the truck? That's a different story. I hated him for years at the same time I grieved for my mother. He went to prison and I made the decision to stop following his story at some point as a teenager. I do get the urge to look him up now but have resisted. What's there to know, to say? Nothing he could say would change the past and I have no need nor desire for an apology. But here I am. From my trek through the forest, I have been able to interact with this world. I have come to the edge of the property and I can see my young self and my mom...there she is, so beautiful and young and ALIVE! I can see her! I know that all I need to do is yell out, get their attention, delay her from departing for even two minutes and everything will change. That's how this works, right? I draw a deep breath and open my mouth to yell out...and I cannot. My voice dies before I can give warning or alert to my presence. For I have held a life I helped create in my arms. I was there for her birth. I loved her from the moment my wife told me she was pregnant and growing inside her. I taught her to laugh, to walk, to play. She has fallen asleep in my arms countless times, moments I would not give back the universe. I will not - cannot - give her back. How many times have I wished my mom could meet my daughter? I know they would love one another. Every time I think of this, I grieve anew. If I yell, if I say just one word, to catch the attention of the little boy and his mother, I can right a grevious wrong. I can spare him years of heartache. I can spare her the pain she endured. But the cost. The cost would be another life, the best thing I have ever done. The best person I know now. If I call out, I undo the chain of events that brings her into the world. I undo her first steps, her first words. I undo her. There, the mother...my mom...reaches over and kisses my forehead. I know, I remember, I have seconds before she pulls away. This is the last time I will ever see her. The injuries she suffered were too great to allow her children to see her, I will be later told. Besides, they said, she wouldn't recognize you due to the extensive damage to her brain. I see the little boy nod. I can't see his tears but I know they are there. I know he is feeling scared. He knows she should not go but her assurances have calmed him. I have but one more moment to act. They've started the motorcycle. There, she waves at him. At me. They are pulling away. I have seconds to act. I must act. But, my child, my daughter. I cannot act. What choice is this? What impossible force has brought me here to make this decision? Was there ever a choice? I stand here, tears in my eyes, as my mother rides away. Edit: a few more details and flow. Author's comment: every day, I see my mom in my daughter. I've often thought about, "If I could go back and change things, would I?" This story is my answer.