Waking Up 80 Years Later: Meeting My Son Again

"Kneel," the 80-year-old billionaire commanded, his voice shaking as he pointed at me, an 18-year-old girl. The entire dining hall went silent. My rebellious great-great-grandson, Alexander, looked like he’d seen a ghost. "Grandfather, are you insane?" "She is your Great-Grandmother!" James roared, tears streaming down his withered face. He stumbled toward me, disregarding his cane, and collapsed at my feet, clutching my hands like a lost child finding his way home. "Mama... you finally came back." I looked down at the old man weeping against my skirt. Eighty years ago, I died saving the Manhattan Project. Now, I was back in a stranger's body, and my little Jimmy was the most powerful man in Boston. I stroked his silver hair, just as I did when he was six. "I'm here, Jimmy. And it looks like I have a lot of cleaning up to do in this family." I tossed a stack of Black Centurion Cards onto the table. "From today on, I control the money. Alexander, your allowance is revoked until you learn some respect." The boy who used to bully me turned pale. He didn't know that the real storm was just beginning. I wasn't just a transfer student; I was the matriarch who built this legacy, and I was about to bring them all to their knees.