If You Want a Second Chance

Three Days LaterMay 16th; 2023Taylor Swift's Point of ViewI've been pacing outside Jason's house for the past twenty minutes, wearing a path into the sidewalk. I keep checking the windows, half-expecting someone to peek out and tell me to leave. My stomach is a mess of nerves—tight, unsettled, almost nauseating. I haven't seen my daughter in nearly fifteen years. I don't even know what her voice sounds like anymore.

I gnaw at the end of my thumbnail, my other hand clenched in a fist at my side. Every time I get close to knocking, I lose my nerve. What do you even say to a child you walked away from?

Then the front door swings open, and Travis fills the frame. His eyes narrow slightly, like he's been watching me debate with myself this whole time.

"You coming in or not?" he asks, his tone more tired than irritated.

I freeze like a deer caught in headlights. "Sorry," I say, my voice a little shaky. "Seeing her is... I'm scared."

He lets out a breath, runs a hand through his hair. "I told her you were coming, so she wasn't blindsided."

I nod, though it doesn't bring me much relief.

"She's not exactly thrilled," he adds, softer now. "Just... don't expect too much."

My chest tightens. I nod again, because I don't trust myself to speak. And then, silently, he steps aside and opens the door wider. I nod, mostly to myself, and step forward. My heart pounds so loudly in my ears I can barely hear my own footsteps on the tile. The air inside smells like garlic and laundry detergent, like a home. Like something I forfeited a long time ago.

Travis doesn't say anything else. He just gestures toward the hallway.

"She's in the back bedroom," he says. "Go slow. Let her lead."

My heels click against the tile with every step, sharp and too loud in the silence. Travis walks just ahead of me, his posture tense, like he's bracing for something. Maybe I am too. The hallway feels endless, every second stretching like elastic about to snap.

Before we reach the end of the hallway, Travis stops and pulls a folded surgical mask from his pocket.

"You need to wear this," he says, voice quiet but firm.

I blink at him, caught off guard. "I tested negative before the show."

"It's not about tests. She's vulnerable. I'm not taking chances."

He holds it out to me, and I nod, slipping it over my face without another word. We stop in front of a closed door. He glances back at me once, then steps to the side, letting me face it alone.

I stare at the wood grain, my heart hammering like it wants to escape my chest. My hand hovers over the knob, but I can't bring myself to turn it just yet.

This is it. I take a shaky breath. One in. One out.

My fingers curl around the handle, cool and solid in my grasp. I turn it slowly, the click of the latch sounding impossibly loud in the still air. The door creaks open an inch, then a little more.

She's on the other side of this. My daughter. I can't believe I'm doing this. I push the door open all the way.

She's looking at her phone when I walk in and barely glances up before dropping her gaze again. There's no flicker of recognition in her face. No shock. No curiosity. Just indifference—like I'm another nurse, or a stranger delivering a package.

She's so small. Too small. Her skin is pale, almost gray under the soft lamplight, and her body seems swallowed by the oversized sweatshirt she's wearing. A floral-print turban is wrapped around her head, hiding the hair that's no longer there. Her face is thin. Sharp. Like time and pain have carved it down.

She kept Travis's green eyes. I can see them now, behind long lashes, darting back and forth as she scrolls aimlessly through her phone like I'm not even here.

My eyes drift across the room and land on a picture frame propped up on the nightstand. It's her and Travis taken long before cancer, I can tell. Her face is fuller then, cheeks round with youth. She's laughing, a mouthful of braces flashing, long blonde hair flying behind her as Travis swings her in a circle. I can feel that moment through the glass. It radiates warmth. Safety. It almost hurts to look at.

I walk slowly to the chair beside her bed, my heels muffled against the carpet. Every step feels like it might crack the air between us. She doesn't look up. I sit down carefully, trying not to make too much noise, like I might scare her off. Or maybe like I don't want to admit I'm scared myself.

"You can pretend I'm not here," I say softly. "Scroll through your phone. Do whatever you want. I'm not here to force anything."

She keeps scrolling. The only response is the faint clicking of her nails tapping the screen.

"I just..." I pause, swallowing the knot that's been sitting in my throat since I walked through the door. "I just wanted to see you."

Still nothing. No words. Just the low hum of her breathing and the distant sound of the TV playing in another room. And I stay there—awkward, aching, and silent—waiting in the space she's still deciding whether to let me into.

"I'm not here to make excuses," I say quietly, my voice barely steady. "What I did... it was awful. I was a teenager. I was scared out of my mind, and instead of stepping up, I ran."

She doesn't look at me, but I keep going.

"I put my career before you. I convinced myself that leaving you with your dad was the right choice. Maybe it was the right choice for you... but the truth is, it was the easy choice for me."

I pause, because the next words hurt coming out.

"I could've stepped up. I should've. And I didn't. I'm so sorry, June."

She doesn't say anything. Just keeps scrolling on her phone like I never spoke. The silence isn't cold—it's worse. It's heavy. Like it's been waiting for years to exist between us. I don't even know if she's angry or if she's just numb. Maybe both. I sit there with the weight of my own words settling in my chest like cement, trying not to fidget.

I glance at the photo again. The old her. The girl I never got to know. She doesn't look up, doesn't shift, doesn't offer anything. And maybe that's fair. Maybe I don't deserve anything back.

"Leaving you is my biggest regret," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. The words feel raw as they come out—scraped from a place I've spent years locking away, pretending didn't exist. "I'll never forgive myself for it."

June doesn't look up right away. She keeps her eyes fixed on her phone like I haven't spoken at all, like I'm just another noise in the background. But then—slowly—she lifts her gaze, and it's like staring into a mirror I don't deserve.

Her face is thin, almost hollow. The turban wrapped around her head is bright with flowers, a sharp contrast to the dullness in her expression. There's no softness in her voice when she finally speaks—only a cold, unflinching edge.

"I'll never forgive you either."

It lands like a punch. Not sudden. Not dramatic. Just clean and cruel, like she's spent years preparing those five words.

She says them with the same finality someone might use to close a door.

I nod, though my chest is tight and my vision blurs slightly at the edges. There's no use trying to defend myself. No point in telling her I understand—because how could I? I wasn't there when she lost her first tooth. I wasn't there for the scraped knees, the birthdays, the nights she probably cried and asked why I left. She doesn't owe me forgiveness. And I don't ask for it.

A small tear escapes down my cheek before I can stop it. My voice is barely a whisper."You're just... God, June. You are so beautiful."

She scoffs without looking up from her phone."I'm bald."

Her tone is dry, clipped, but beneath the sarcasm I can hear the ache. Like maybe part of her wants to believe me—but she's been hurt too many times to let herself.

I swallow, eyes still on her. "I don't care. You're still the most beautiful person I've ever seen."

June sets her phone down slowly, her fingers curling around the edges like she's grounding herself. Her voice is flat, unshaken, but there's something boiling just beneath the surface.

"What do you want from me, Taylor?"

My mouth opens, then closes. I take a second, swallow hard. "I just... I just wanted to see you."

Her eyes narrow, sharp as glass. "So you bought me?"

The words punch me straight in the chest.

"What?" I whisper, blinking.

"My dad told me everything." She tilts her head, watching me like she's dissecting something small and pathetic. "That you wouldn't give him the money unless you could come see me. So, congratulations. Here I am. Do I look like seven hundred thousand dollars to you?"

"June..." I shake my head. "That's not what this is. I didn't buy you. I wanted to help. That's all I ever—"

"Wanted?" She cuts me off, her voice rising. "If you wanted to help, you would've shown up before now. You would've been around when I lost my hair. When I started throwing up blood. When we got evicted."

Her words hang in the air like smoke, suffocating.

"I didn't want to take your money," she spits, her voice cracking now. "But my dad loves me. And I love him. I love him so much that I want to stay alive. Even if that means putting up with you for twenty miserable minutes."

She picks her phone back up, her hands shaking slightly. "So go ahead. Sit there. Watch me. Say whatever you came to say. But don't lie to me, and don't pretend this is anything more than what it is."

"Is there something I can do?" My voice is barely a whisper. "Something—anything—to prove that I care about you? That I'm not... a complete monster?"

June doesn't answer right away. She stares at me, eyes unreadable, like she's weighing whether I'm even worth the oxygen it would take to respond. Then, slowly, she sets her phone aside again, fingers tapping against her thigh in thought.

"Yeah," she says finally. "There is something."

My heart leaps, just a little. "Okay," I say, leaning in. "What is it?"

"Tell them."

I blink. "Tell who?"

"Everyone," she says flatly. "Tell the world what you did."

I flinch like I've been slapped. "What?"

"You want to make this right?" Her voice sharpens, but it's still quiet, steady. "You want me to believe you care? Then stop hiding behind your image. Stop pretending this didn't happen. You chose fame and fortune over being a mom. So own it. Not some sanitized, PR-approved sob story either. I want it real. Brutally honest. From you. In your own words."

She's leaning forward now, intensity radiating from her despite how weak she looks. "And then? Drop the NDAs. All of them. You don't get to keep me locked away like some dirty little secret anymore. I'm not a mistake you get to erase."

I stare at her, speechless. Every word lands like a stone in my gut.

"Or," she shrugs, her tone turning cold again, "don't. Go sing another song about how strong you are. Just don't come back here pretending you want to fix this if you're not willing to actually do it."

"If I uh... if I do that..." I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. "I want you to know—the media will probably come after you. They'll dig. They'll track you down. You'll be in headlines. Paparazzi outside hospitals, the whole circus."

June doesn't even blink. Her jaw tightens, her fingers curling into the blanket around her legs.

"You think I care?" she says sharply. "You think I'm scared of people finding out the truth? I've been poked, cut open, and pumped full of poison for the last two years. I've been dying in silence while you sold out stadiums."

Her voice wavers, but her eyes don't.

"You're worried about the media? I'm worried about whether I'll be alive in six months."

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come. She shakes her head like she's done.

"You say you want to prove you care. Then prove it. Let the world know exactly who you are. And let them know who I am too."

"You're asking me to destroy my career," I say, my voice barely holding steady. "Like... set it on fire, watch it burn, and bury the ashes six feet under."

June doesn't flinch. She just stares at me, hollow but steady.

"You said you chose your career over me once," she says quietly. "And that it was your biggest regret. So what now? Are you going to do it again?"

"No," I say after a long silence, my throat tightening. "I'll post about it this week. I just need a little time to—"

"No," June cuts in sharply. Her voice is thin, but there's steel beneath it. "You'll do it right now."

I blink, caught off guard.

"You want to prove something to me?" she says, folding her arms. "Then don't wait until it's convenient. Don't go run it by a publicist or sugarcoat it with some carefully-worded statement. You said you regret it. Show me you mean it."

"Can I at least give my publicist a heads up?" I ask, my voice soft, almost pleading.

June tilts her head, eyes narrowed with something between disbelief and disappointment. "Seriously?"

She picks up her phone again, like the conversation bores her now. "You don't need a publicist to tell the truth. Just write it."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because she's right. I want to control the story, soften the blow, survive it. But that's not the point—not to her.

She doesn't look at me when she speaks again. "You said this was your biggest regret. So own it. Not with PR. With your damn voice."

"Okay," I whisper, swallowing hard. "Just... give me a minute."

I pull my phone from my purse, hands already trembling before I've even unlocked the screen. My thumbs hover uselessly for a moment over the keyboard.

June watches me from her bed, expression unreadable. "I want to proofread it before you post it."

My eyes flick up to her, startled. "What?"

She shrugs, her tone calm but firm. "You said this was for me. So I want to make sure it doesn't sound like you're writing a heartfelt breakup with your fans. I want the truth. Not fluff."

Her words sting, but again she's right.

I nod. "Okay. You'll read it first."

Then, slowly, painfully, I start typing.

My fingers shake as I type, the blue light of my phone screen casting a harsh glow against the quiet tension in the room. Every letter feels like it's pulling something raw out of me—grief, shame, regret.

June doesn't look away. She's watching me, arms crossed over the thin blanket, her face pale but steady. I wonder how she got so strong.

The words come slowly, awkwardly at first:

Fifteen years ago, I gave birth to a daughter. I was young, terrified, and selfish. I chose my career over raising her. I walked away. I told myself it was the right thing—that her father would be better for her than I ever could be. But the truth is, I didn't try. I didn't even try.

My throat closes. I blink hard, willing myself not to cry.

I've spent over a decade pretending she didn't exist. I made people sign NDAs. I created a version of myself that didn't include her. I erased her because it was easier than facing what I'd done. But she's real. Her name is June.

I pause, thumb hovering over the next line. Then I turn the phone and hand it to her. She takes it in silence, her brows furrowing as she reads. Her eyes dart quickly across the screen. Then she scrolls back to the top and reads it again, slower.

A long beat of silence.

"You can keep going," she says finally, her voice softer now. "You're not done yet."

I nod and take the phone back. She doesn't look away this time.

I wasn't there for her first steps. I missed her first words. I missed everything that matters. And I don't deserve forgiveness. But I'm not hiding anymore. I'm not going to pretend she didn't happen. I'm not going to let her carry the weight of my mistake. She has every right to hate me. But I'm her mother. And I need the world to know what I did.

I stop. My thumb lingers over the "post" button.

"You want to read it one more time?" I ask, barely above a whisper.

June looks at me, and something flickers across her face. Maybe not warmth but not pure hatred either.

She nods once. "Post it."

The post goes live. Within seconds, likes begin ticking up—hundreds, then thousands—but I barely see them. It's the photo that takes up the whole screen. Me, clutching a baby wrapped in a hospital blanket. My face is pale and tear-streaked, but I'm smiling. She's sleeping in my arms, tiny and pink, with just a sliver of blonde hair on her head.

I remember the moment like it was yesterday, though I've tried so hard to forget it. I wasn't ready to be a mom. I didn't feel like one. But in that moment, holding her, I remember thinking: this is real.

I glance up from the screen. June is watching me—expression unreadable, but no longer cold.

"I kept some of your baby pictures," I say. "They're not many, just a few. I used to look at them when I missed you."

She doesn't say anything, but her lips press into a thin line. I can't tell if she's holding back more anger or something else entirely.

The notifications keep coming. Comments start flooding in—some confused, some shocked, some already piecing together the truth. The whole world is learning about her, about us, about what I did.

"I can turn the comments off if you want," I offer.

June shrugs. "Let them talk."

She turns her face slightly toward the window, and I let the silence hang between us. I don't know if I've done the right thing. I just know I've done something I should have done years ago.

My phone rings almost immediately—Tree. Of course. I stare at the screen, watching her name flash in bold letters while my heart pounds in my chest. I don't pick up. I don't have it in me to deal with the damage control, the PR scramble, the headlines already being drafted. I sigh and mute the call, letting the phone fall to my lap.

"I'm going to be cancelled," I murmur, more to myself than to her.

June doesn't hesitate. "Good."

The word slices through the air like a blade. I glance at her, and she's not looking at me—she's scrolling again, calm as ever, like she didn't just declare open season on the ruins of my life.

"You think I deserve it," I say quietly.

She shrugs. "You said it yourself. You chose your career over me. Maybe this is the part where you don't get to have both anymore."

I nod, swallowing hard. She's right. She's so painfully, brutally right.

"I obliterated my career for you," I whisper, my voice thin and shaky. "Please... can I see you again?"

June doesn't look at me right away. Her eyes flicker to the IV dripping steadily into her arm, then back down to her phone. Her silence stretches just long enough to make me think she's going to say no.

Then, calmly, without lifting her head, she says, "On one condition."

I lean forward. "What is it?"

She sets her phone aside and finally meets my eyes. "Dad and I need to live closer to the children's hospital. Living at Uncle Jason's isn't cutting it anymore. I'm tired. He's tired. It's not fair."

"Okay," I nod. "That makes sense."

"I'm not talking some motel either," she adds. "I mean a real place. Comfortable. Quiet. Somewhere I can rest without hearing other people's kids crying through the wall."

I blink, then nod again. "A nice place. Safe. Close by. You'll have it."

She studies me like she's trying to decide whether or not she believes me. I brace myself, waiting for the catch, the next jab, but it doesn't come.

"Then yeah," she says. "You can see me again."

"Done," I say softly. "It's done."

She nods once, almost like a business deal's been struck, then shifts her gaze away again. It's not tender. It's not forgiveness. It's a transaction—a quiet truce.

I sit there for a second, letting it settle. The hum of the lights above us buzzes in my ears. I glance down at her arm, at the bruises lining her skin like constellations, and something in my chest cracks open.

"I'll make sure it's furnished," I add, cautiously. "You won't have to lift a finger."

She shrugs. "Cool."

It's not gratitude. It's not indifference either. Just exhaustion, maybe.

She picks her phone back up and unlocks it, scrolling again like I'm already fading into the background.

But I don't move yet.

"June," I say, voice low. "I know I'm not your mom. Not really. Not in the way I should have been. But if you ever want—if you ever need—"

"I won't," she interrupts, not unkindly, just factual. Her eyes don't meet mine this time. "I don't want another parent. I already have one. And he never left."

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Okay."

Another stretch of silence.

"I'll have my assistant start looking at places today," I manage.

"Tell her to send options to Dad," June says, eyes still on her screen. "We can look together."

I almost smile at that—almost. "I will."

I stand up, giving her space. My knees feel stiff, like the air in the room solidified while I was sitting. I glance back at June one more time, but she's already turned her head toward the wall, away from me, her hand resting lazily near the edge of the bed.

"I'll see you soon," I say softly, knowing better than to expect a response.

She doesn't give me one.

—————Author's Note:

Angsty much