I woke up on the day I was adopted. Again. Through the chain-link fence of the children's home, I watched Emma pulling at our future adoptive mother’s sleeve. She was pointing frantically toward the swing set, where Cody was sitting, swinging his legs and singing a mindless tune. "Mom! Look at him! Can we adopt him instead? Please?" In my first life, the Craigs took me home. Emma hated how quiet I was. She hated that I didn't know how to charm people, that I could never be as effortless or lovable as the boy on the swing. I spent my life trying to earn her love. I copied her school notes, took care of our parents when they fell ill, and dropped out of college to work double shifts at a diner to support the family when the Craigs went bankrupt. She thawed toward me, but only slightly. And yet, every time Cody and I competed for anything - a scholarship, a spot on the varsity team, an exchange program - Emma always asked me to step aside. And every single time, I did. The final time was on that flight to Chicago. When smoke filled the cabin and fire began licking at the seats, she looked at me through the panic. Her last words, whispered over the roar of the engines, were: "If there’s a next life... I wish Cody had been my brother." I heard her. And then, the blackness took me. When I opened my eyes, I was back. Right here. Adoption day. Only this time, before Emma could even open her mouth, I smiled. "Mr. and Mrs. Craig, I think Cody would be a much better fit for you." Without waiting for their reaction, I turned and walked toward the Grays - the couple who, in my last life, had taken Cody home. "I’d like to go with you," I said. 1. Mr. Gray blinked, surprised. Then he slowly got down on one knee, bringing himself down to my eye level. His hand was rough, mapped with thick, hard-earned calluses. He reached out, palm up, offering it to me like a quiet promise. "Hey there, buddy. What's your name?" "...Jesse." "Jesse," he repeated. He said it softly, as if he were holding a bird that might fly away. "We've been looking for a son. You don't have to worry about being loud or entertaining. Our house is quiet. You don't need to put on a show for anyone." Behind him, Mrs. Gray's eyes grew glassy, though she didn't speak. Instead, she reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a neat, folded handkerchief, and pressed it into my hand. "Wipe your palms, sweetie," she murmured. "Why are your hands so cold?" I looked down. My knuckles were white. I had been clenching my fists so hard that my fingernails had carved a row of pale, crescent-shaped dents into my skin. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in the back of my throat. In my twenty-two years with the Craigs, no one had ever noticed if my hands were cold. From the direction of the swing set, Cody's bright, easy laughter drifted over. Emma shot me a complicated, searching look, but she didn't say anything to stop me. She pulled Mrs. Craig toward the swings, her voice ringing out: "Mom! Come on! Look how high he can go!" Mrs. Craig cast one last glance back at me. There was a flicker of fleeting regret in her eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it came. She turned her back and walked toward the swings. Mr. Gray was still kneeling there, his hand patiently extended. Rough, warm, and steady. I placed my hand in his. "Okay," I said. "I'll go home with you." As we walked through the heavy wooden gates of the home, the midday sun was so bright it made my eyes water. Mrs. Gray walked on my left, Mr. Gray on my right, with me safely tucked in the middle, each of my hands held firmly in theirs. I looked back once. Emma was pulling Cody off the swing, laughing so hard her eyes squeezed shut. That was the last time in my life I ever chose to look back at them. 2. The Grays lived in an old, quiet neighborhood on the east side of town. The house was small - a modest two-bedroom bungalow with a faded fabric sofa in the living room. My adoptive mother spent several minutes rummaging through the hallway closet before pulling out a brand-new pair of slippers, the tags still attached. "Bought these a while back," she said, kneeling to snip the plastic tag. Her ears flushed a faint, embarrassed pink. "I just... I didn't know when we'd finally bring a boy home. They’ve been sitting in there for two years." My adoptive father poked his head out from the kitchen, a spatula in hand. "Jesse! You like fried catfish?" "Yes, sir." "You got it!" He vanished back into the steam, the metal pan clattering happily. I stood in the middle of the living room in my new slippers, the soles so thick and plush it felt like walking on clouds. That first night, I slept in the smaller bedroom. The sheets had just been washed, smelling faintly of sunshine and lavender fabric softener. On the nightstand, a small lamp cast a warm, buttery glow over the room. My adoptive mother stood in the doorway for a long moment, opening her mouth to speak, then closing it. Finally, she settled on a soft, "I'll leave the door cracked. If you need anything, just call." After her footsteps faded, I buried my face in the pillow. It was plump and warm, holding onto that dry, comforting scent. For the first time across two lifetimes, I fell asleep in a strange bed without curling myself into a tight, defensive ball. Meanwhile, the Craig house was buzzing. My adoptive father repaired electronics at a local swap meet. It was a busy spot, attracting all kinds of people, which meant gossip traveled fast. On the third evening, he set his heavy metal toolbox on the floor, took off his coat, and whispered to my mother: "Guess what? The Craigs threw a massive party. Seven or eight tables at the Heights Country Club. A whole banquet to welcome their new boy." My mother, who was scooping mashed potatoes onto a plate, paused. "A banquet?" "Yeah. Clam bakes, prime rib, the whole nine yards." He hung his apron behind the door, glancing at me as he softened his voice. "Apparently, the daughter insisted on it. Said she wanted her brother to have the proper welcome he deserved." He hesitated. "Do you think we should have..." My mother stayed quiet, watching my face for any reaction. She didn't answer him. Instead, she placed the plate in front of me and added a generous helping of green beans. "Eat up, Jesse." "Thanks, Mom," I said. In my previous life, on my third day with the Craigs, Emma had locked herself in her room and refused to come out. Mrs. Craig had made a table full of food, but Emma wouldn't even budge. I had stood outside her door for half an hour with a plate of dinner, only for her to slide a note under the crack. "Leave me alone." There had been no banquet. No country club. No "proper welcome." She hadn't even called me her brother for years. I didn't care what Emma was trying to prove by throwing Cody that party. That was her business now. It had nothing to do with me. Still, fragments of the banquet found their way to me. My mother ran into the Craigs' housekeeper at the grocery store, and the woman couldn't help but gossip. She talked about how Emma wore a brand-new dress, how her hair was done up beautifully, and how she spent the whole evening holding Cody's hand, introducing him to every aunt, uncle, and cousin. She talked about how sweet Cody was, charming everyone with a "Yes, sir" and "Thank you, ma'am," making the whole table laugh. She even described how Emma had tapped her glass with a spoon, stood up, and made a speech: "Thank you all for coming. This is my brother. If anyone messes with him, they mess with me." Everyone had applauded. Hearing this, my mother sighed quietly, keeping her head down as she sorted through the green beans. Only after the housekeeper walked away did my mother look at me, her eyes filled with gentle worry. "Jesse... do you ever regret it? Choosing us that day?" "Never," I said, looking her straight in the eyes. "I'm more grateful to you than I can say. Truly." I meant it. In my last life, I waited twenty-two years for Emma to call me her brother, to treat me like real family. But by the time the plane was on fire and she said she wished Cody had been her brother instead, I had run out of patience. I was done waiting. 3. A few days later, my mother came back from the market with a bag of fresh apples. She said the Craigs' housekeeper had practically shoved them into her hands, refusing to take no for an answer. "She said Emma told her to give them to us. She said... it was to say thank you." My mother placed the apples on the table, watching me closely. I picked one up, rubbed it against my shirt, and took a bite. It was crisp, sweet, and bursting with juice. "Then tell her she's welcome," I said. My mother lingered for a second, then quietly turned and went into the kitchen. I tossed the apple core into the trash and walked out to the porch to check on the potted jasmine. The leaves looked perkier than they had a few days ago. A tiny, pale-green shoot was starting to poke out from one of the branches, delicate and full of life. I didn't care to figure out what Emma's "thank you" actually meant. Maybe she was thanking me for giving up Cody, or for leaving so cleanly without making a scene. Or maybe she was thanking me for not exposing her on adoption day. She chose Cody, and now she could enjoy her victory with a clear conscience. So be it. She got the brother she wanted. And as for what she owed me, I had no intention of collecting. On our first day of middle school, I bumped into Cody in the hallway. He was wearing a pristine new backpack. When he saw me, he froze for a second, then flashed a bright smile. "Jesse! You go here too?" "Yeah." "I'm in homeroom 301. What about you?" "307." "Oh, cool!" he said, his voice dripping with easy charm. "We're classmates now." I didn't offer anything else. I just nodded and walked past him. And so, Cody and I went to the same school. He was in class 3, I was in class 7. Every day after the final bell, I would see Emma waiting by the gates to pick him up. Sometimes, across the crowded courtyard, I could feel her eyes on me. But I never looked back. A month later, the results of our first midterm exams were posted. I ranked seventh in the entire grade. Cody ranked ninety-third. The honor roll sheet was taped to the cafeteria doors, right where everyone had to pass by. That afternoon, after school let out, Emma was waiting in the hallway between our classrooms, her hands shoved deep into her parka pockets. As I walked out, she stepped forward and called my name. Her voice sounded different - flat, hesitant, like she had rehearsed a speech but lost her nerve halfway through. "Jesse..." I stopped and looked at her. She rubbed her hands together before stuffing them back into her pockets. Her eyes flicked away from mine, darting down the hall toward the cafeteria doors before returning to my face. "My parents... they mentioned you at dinner the other night. They saw your grades." I kept silent. "They said... they remembered how mature you were back at the home." "Okay." She paused. A dry yellow leaf from the oak tree outside drifted through the open window and landed on her shoulder. She didn't brush it off. "They said you're doing really well." "Thanks," I said. "Thank them for me, too." Then I walked past her. That night, my mother asked me how the exams went. "Seventh in the grade," I said. She gasped, dropping her spatula right into the sink, and rushed over to wrap her arms around me. A streak of grease from her apron wiped onto my sleeve, but I didn't care. My father came running in from the living room. "What happened? What's going on?" "Your son!" my mother cried. "He got seventh! In the whole grade!" My father blinked, a massive grin spreading across his face. "Well, then. Don't we need to celebrate?" "Absolutely! What do you want to eat, Jesse?" "Fried catfish," I said. "Catfish again? We just had that two nights ago!" "Crispy fried catfish." My mother rolled her eyes, but she was already heading back to the stove, muttering under her breath as she heated up the oil. My father sat back down on the sofa to work on his radio, humming a terribly out-of-tune song as he turned his screwdriver. Sitting at the dining table, watching my mother hustle in the kitchen and listening to my father's terrible humming, I realized something. That yellow leaf on Emma's shoulder was already gone. I didn't need to remember it. 4. In the spring of our eighth-grade year, Emma approached me for the second time. I was waiting at the bus stop after school. She was leaning against a bus shelter advertisement about ten feet away, watching me. I pretended not to see her. She walked over and stood beside me, leaving a deliberate, awkward gap between us. "Jesse." "Yeah." "You're in eighth grade now, right?" "Yeah." "How did your midterms go?" "They were fine." She ran out of things to say. So did I. The bus pulled up. I swiped my pass and climbed aboard, finding a seat near the back window. As the bus pulled away, I glanced back. She was still standing under the shelter, a solitary gray silhouette dissolving into the evening twilight. That night, as I was finishing my homework, my phone buzzed on the desk. It was a text from Emma: "Cody did terrible on his midterms. My dad screamed at him. Can you let him copy your study guides?" I stared at the screen for a long time. Then another text came through: "Just this once. He'll give them right back as soon as he's done copying." And a third: "Just do it as a favor. Please." I set the phone face down. I finished my math, then my English, then my physics. By the time I was done, it was past eleven. I picked up the phone and typed: "Fine." Then I shut it off. The next day at lunch, Cody came looking for me. He stood outside my classroom, holding a cup of boba tea. "Jesse! Thank you so much! I finished copying your notes. Here you go!" He handed the binder back to me. A crooked, poorly drawn heart sticky-note was pasted on the cover. I opened it to check. On the margin of the first page, there was a tiny scribble in his handwriting: "Your sister told you to let me have it, and you did. You're a good guy." I folded the corner of that page down. Cody walked away with a light, cheerful bounce in his step. I stood in the hallway, watching his retreating back. In my last life, he had said almost the exact same thing to me. Every time I backed out of a scholarship, a competition, or an exchange program, he would say, "Jesse, you're such a good guy." Back then, I took it as a compliment. Now, I understood what it really meant. It meant: "You gave me what was yours, so you're a good guy. And I'll keep taking." A month later, the school announced the Winter Showcase. Each grade was to nominate host candidates, and the school would vote on one boy and one girl to host the entire event. Class 3 nominated Cody. He was outgoing, charismatic, and completely at ease in front of a crowd - he was the obvious choice for his homeroom teacher. My teacher, on the other hand, hesitated for a long time before calling my name. I had just made the top five in our midterms. My teacher said, "Top students usually have a steady presence on stage." I didn't decline. I just nodded. On the day the nominee list was posted, Cody walked past my classroom and peeked inside. I was writing at my desk, but I felt his gaze and looked up. He flashed me a quick, sweet smile and walked on. When school let out, Emma was waiting for me. She straightened up when she saw me walk through the doors. "Jesse." "Yeah." "About the Winter Showcase hosting," she said. "Can you bow out?"
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