章 49: Dinner with Destiny
Our apartment building's elevator was still broken—it would remain that way until 2007 unless I intervened earlier this time—so I took the stairs slowly, letting the day's victories settle into my bones. The familiar scent of Mom's arroz con gandules drifted down the stairwell, a comfort that transcended timelines. In my first life, I'd missed this dinner, and a hundred others like it, chasing connections in overpriced Manhattan bars.
I found her at the kitchen table, still in her scrubs but with her hair down, hospital ID placed beside a stack of bills. The sight stopped me in the doorway. I'd forgotten how young she looked in 2004, before the worry lines had etched themselves permanently around her eyes.
"There's my producer," she said, smile illuminating the small kitchen. "Mr. Rico called earlier. Couldn't understand half of what he was saying, he was so excited."
I set my equipment down carefully—in this timeline, I'd never sell the 505, never pawn my first instruments for rent money. "It was a good day, Mom. Really good."
The microwave hummed as she reheated dinner, her movements carrying that bone-deep exhaustion I remembered too well. In my previous life, she'd worked doubles for another three years before her health forced her to scale back. The notebooks hidden under my bed contained more than just music industry forecasts; they held carefully researched investment strategies, stock tips, and business decisions that would ensure she'd never work another double shift after this year.
"Tell me everything," she said, placing a full plate before me. "But first—grace."
We bowed our heads, and I let her familiar prayer wash over me. In my first timeline, I'd stopped joining her for these moments, too caught up in my rush toward future glory. The taste of regret was sharper than any seasoning.
"The first session," I began between bites, "there was this artist named Jerome. Had a pretty standard club track planned, but we turned it into something different. Something with meaning." I carefully edited out the parts about future production techniques and timeline manipulation. "Then Marcus Andrews showed up—he's this big A&R guy—"
"A&R?"
"Artist and Repertoire. They're like talent scouts for labels, but more. They shape careers, decide which artists get resources." I watched her process this, remembering how much of my world had been foreign to her the first time around. "Anyway, he wants to meet next week. Could be big."
Mom's fork paused halfway to her mouth. "Big like your father's 'big opportunities'?"
The weight of her skepticism was earned. Dad's pursuit of music glory had left us with nothing but missed rent payments and broken promises. "Different," I said softly. "I'm not chasing fame, Mom. I'm building something sustainable. Something that will take care of us both."
"You sound so sure," she said, studying me with that penetrating maternal gaze that saw more than I sometimes remembered. "Lately you sound... older."
My heart stuttered, but years of industry negotiations had taught me to maintain composure. "Maybe I'm just growing up," I offered, the truth hiding in plain sight.
She reached across the table, her hand finding mine. "You know you don't have to take care of me, right? That's not your job."
"It's not about jobs," I said, squeezing her fingers gently. "It's about family. About doing things right this time." The words slipped out before I could catch them.
"This time?"
I covered quickly: "I mean, doing it differently than Dad did. Making music that matters, but being smart about the business too." I pulled out Rico's contract draft. "Look—fifty-fifty partnership. Full publishing rights. He's never offered anyone that kind of deal before."
She studied the paper with the careful attention she gave to hospital charts, her free hand absently touching the cross at her neck. "You're really serious about this."
"More than you know," I whispered, remembering twenty years of future triumphs that had felt hollow without her there to share them properly.
Later, after the dishes were done and Mom had finally let me shoo her off to rest, I sat in my room with the day's session recordings. Through my headphones, I could hear the subtle ways the timeline was already shifting—Jerome's elevated lyrics, Kendra's confident flow over production that borrowed from a future she'd now help create rather than follow.
I pulled out my notebook, the one filled with two decades of industry knowledge encrypted as teenage ambitions, and began plotting next week's meeting with Andrews. In my first timeline, he'd become untouchable right before the streaming revolution. This time, I'd make sure he was positioned to help us shape it instead.
*"Time flows both ways in a dreamer's mind
Future echoes in the tracks we leave behind
Every choice a remix of what could be
Every moment a chance to set the rhythm free..."*
The lyrics came unbidden, a bridge between who I had been and who I was becoming. Outside, the Bronx night pulsed with familiar energy, but the rhythm was changing, one careful adjustment at a time. In my pocket, Rico's contract represented the first major deviation from the original timeline.
Mom's soft humming drifted through the wall—an old hymn she used to sing when I was truly young. I closed my eyes, letting the sound blend with the instrumental track I was tweaking. In the space between memory and possibility, between experience and innovation, I was composing something greater than music.
I was composing tomorrow.
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