I lay in the hospital bed, exhausted but elated, cradling my newborn son in my arms. The pain of labor had been intense, but now it was all worth it as I gazed down at his tiny face. He had my father's eyes - my grandfather's eyes.
As I held him close, breathing in his newborn scent, a wave of déjà vu washed over me. This moment felt so familiar, yet entirely new. I realized with a start that I was reliving my own birth from the other side. The baby in my arms was me.
A tear slid down my cheek as I whispered, "Welcome to the world, Brandon."
I hesitated for a moment, my heart racing. This was it - the moment that would truly cement my new identity. With trembling hands, I unbuttoned my sweater and guided my son - myself - to my breast. As he latched on and began to suckle, a rush of emotions flooded through me.
The sensation was strange yet oddly familiar, as if my body instinctively knew what to do. I gazed down at Brandon's tiny face, his eyes closed contentedly as he nursed. It was surreal to think that this was me, that I was nourishing my past self with my own body.
This moment of connection with my infant self was profound, yet tinged with sadness. I mourned for the mother I once knew, whose life I had inadvertently stolen. And I grieved for the carefree teenage boy I used to be, now lost to time.
I mourned for her - the woman who had given me life and raised me with love and care. She was gone now, replaced by me in this alternate timeline.
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