Chapter Text
The night leaned over New York with the serenity of a predator lying in wait. The sky, tinged with an increasingly dark shade of blue, swallowed the last nuances of dusk as the lights of Times Square flickered in an electric frenzy, oblivious to the inevitable march of time. Inside the crowded theater, the anticipation was palpable, a restless beast contained only by the thin veil of the curtain that would rise in just a few minutes.
— Five minutes, Rachel.
The voice snapped Rachel Berry out of her haze of thoughts. Five minutes. Just five minutes until she crossed the stage once again, until she surrendered to the spotlight and proved to the world, as she had always dreamed, that she was born for this. One hundred and twenty seconds. Enough for one last look in the mirror.
Her reflection stared back at her: flawless makeup, a perfectly fitted costume, microphone in hand. A star. At least, that was what she was supposed to be. She took a deep breath, summoning the image of Barbra Streisand, her greatest inspiration, and recalled the phrase the legend once said: “I knew that with a mouth like mine, I was either going to be a star or something like that.”
Rachel smiled — a small, brief smile — before standing up and heading for the stage. The path was familiar—the handshakes, the whispered good lucks, the admiring and envious glances from her castmates. But nothing compared to the sound waiting for her beyond the curtain. Her name, chanted by the audience in a deafening unison. Euphoria coursed through her veins like a hot, intoxicating liquid.
The theater lights dimmed. The central spotlight cut across the stage, the curtain rose, and Rachel stepped forward to center stage, where the light embraced her like a burning hug.
She opened her mouth.
No sound came out.
The lines she knew so well evaporated. The words slipped from her mind like sand through her fingers. The heat of excitement was replaced by a piercing cold, and the knot in her throat grew until it choked her.
The murmuring began. Stifled laughter. Impatient whispers. Then came the boos.
— I paid for this play! — someone shouted from the audience. — Come on! Sing!
But she couldn’t move. Her body was rigid, heavy, as if cemented to the floor.
— Come on, Rachel! Weren’t you the greatest star?
The mockery cut deeper than any blade ever could. Rachel felt her legs falter, the weight of shame crushing her chest. This moment was her greatest fear materialized—not being enough.
Then, a new sound erupted in the theater.
— Mom! Mom! Come on, I need you to help me find my cargo pants!
The darkness dissipated. The theater vanished. Reality pulled her back like an anchor.
— Good morning to you too, young lady. — Rachel murmured, rubbing her eyes before looking at her daughter, who resembled her so much it was like looking into the past. — Five more minutes and I’ll help you, okay?
Barbara rolled her eyes, crossing her arms in a stance Rachel knew all too well.
— Fine. But please don’t take too long. It’s my first day of high school, and it needs to start perfectly so it can end the same way.
Rachel smiled at her daughter’s almost theatrical determination. Teenagers. Always believing they had control over their own destiny.
After a quick shower, she headed to Barbara’s room and opened the second drawer on the left, pulling out the much-sought-after cargo pants. When she reached the kitchen, she found her daughter engrossed in her phone, humming some pop song while nibbling on a piece of toast.
— Was this the pair you were looking for?
Barbara glanced at the pants and smiled, taking them before placing a kiss on her mother’s cheek.
— Yep, that’s the one. Thanks, Mom.
It was in these small gestures of affection that Rachel found certainty she had made the right choice. Of course, their life wasn’t perfect—not even close—but Berry knew she was doing a good job when she saw a big, bright smile on her beloved Barbie’s face. They had been through so much, and yet they were still standing, together.
Rachel Berry had left the stage almost fifteen years ago, when she found out she was pregnant. A whirlwind of events had struck her at that point in her life—New York, NYADA, Brody, Finn, and a huge audition for the role of her dreams: Funny Girl. It was too much to juggle, and with a child, it would be nearly impossible. But Rachel gathered her thoughts into a list of pros and cons, brought her friends and family together, and broke the news. She had the privilege of being supported by every single one of them, which made her decision to drop out of college and abandon her acting career feel a little lighter.
Everyone close to Berry knew. Kurt promised to be the best uncle in the world; Blaine bought bow ties, which were later replaced with ribbons when they found out it was a girl; Santana, in her own Santana way, embraced her like never before; Brittany knitted tiny socks; Sam cried tears of joy; Mercedes and Tina assured her they would be there for whatever she needed; Leroy and Hiram were the most understanding parents possible.
They all celebrated the news. Except for the one person who never found out: Finn Hudson.
It hadn’t been intentional.
Rachel had asked her friends not to make a big deal out of it—after all, she wanted to tell Finn herself, since he was the father of the child growing inside her. But he never found out. He never knew he had a daughter, that his legacy would live on in the world. Fate cruelly stole his chance to know. Rachel spent countless sleepless nights searching for explanations, trying to understand why, just when it seemed like things might work out between them, the universe took that possibility away.
Until, when Barbie was born, she understood. A part of Finn was forever connected to her. And that was enough. The choice she had made nine months earlier was the right one. After all, it was never too late. She could chase her dreams later. Someone small, fragile, with beautiful, shining brown eyes needed her more at that moment.
On the other side of the short list of people who didn’t know, ironically, was Quinn Fabray. The girl Rachel Berry had spent high school fighting, competing with, orbiting around like two celestial bodies on a collision course. In the end, they had promised friendship but never followed through. Time had pulled them apart.
At least, that was how the story had been told.
But nothing was ever simple when it came to Rachel Berry and Quinn Fabray.
Of course, Quinn knew. She knew about the pregnancy. She knew about Finn’s loss. Santana and Brittany always kept her informed when they visited Rachel in Lima. Quinn never asked. Never intervened. But knowing didn’t mean accepting.
Then, in the third month, something inside her broke. Quinn dropped everything and went to Lima.
The knock on the door was firm, rhythmic. Three taps. An old code, a relic from the times when they had shared secrets, dreams, and whispered promises in the darkness of a dorm room.
Rachel felt her breath hitch.
She didn’t need to open the door to know who it was.
And yet, she did.
Quinn was there, breathless, her hair disheveled, as if she had run a marathon to get there. Maybe she had.
— Rachel.
The name escaped her lips with urgency and relief mixed together, as if holding it in any longer was impossible.
Rachel blinked, feeling her whole body freeze.
— Q-Quinn? What are you doing here?
The words came out shaky, uncertain.
She tried to hide her belly with her hands, as if the gesture could erase reality, but it was too late.
Quinn saw. Quinn knew.
Because she had been there, in that exact situation, before.
The green eyes scanned Rachel’s silhouette, absorbing every detail, and when they met hers again, there was something different in Quinn’s gaze — pain, perhaps, or a silent hurt that needed no words.
She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Sat on the couch.
— So, you were going to hide it from me?
There was no anger in her voice. Just a melancholic weight, a tired disappointment.
Rachel took a deep breath, trying to find an answer among the wreckage of what remained of her sanity.
— I wasn’t going to hide it from you. — Her voice was low, hesitant. — I just… didn’t know how to tell you.
Quinn leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees.
— Don’t you think maybe I was the right person to help you?
The tension in the room thickened, and Rachel knew the fragile line between control and chaos was about to snap.
— Yes, I do. — She admitted, closing her eyes for a moment. — But I didn’t want you to feel obligated to take care of me. You have your life in New Haven, you’re graduating, and…
— Rachel.
Her name was spoken like an anchor, pulling her back. And then Quinn took her hand.
Berry felt the warmth of her touch and saw the green eyes welling up.
— None of that would be an obstacle. — The blonde said softly. — I know that. And so do you.
Rachel looked away. Felt her heart tighten.
— Quinn, please. Don’t make this more complicated…
— There’s no complication.
The answer came fast, sharp, like a bullet. Quinn took a deep breath before continuing.
— I’m here for all the days we spent together. For all the plans we made lying on your bed in Bushwick. For all the words of love. For every time you told me you’d support me no matter what I chose.
She swallowed hard.
— I want to do the same for you.
Rachel laughed. A bitter laugh, almost a sob.
— Oh, really? And how are we going to raise two kids in a college dorm? — The question was laced with sarcasm, but the tears shone dangerously in her eyes. — Yale was already generous enough to let Beth stay with you sometimes.
— You know that’s not what I’m suggesting.
Quinn’s voice was calm, but there was an undeniable firmness in it.
— Beth is two years old. She has me, my mother. I don’t need a dorm anymore. I’m not saying you have to let me be part of this… Just that… — The pause was long, heavy. — I would like to.
Rachel didn’t respond.
Quinn squeezed her hand again, as if searching for an answer silently.
— Please, Rach.
Silence fell between them. It was suffocating.
— We were never exclusive. — Quinn continued, her voice almost a whisper. — We never labeled what we had, and that was never a problem. But we have something special. Something that can’t be recreated.
The silence remained.
Rachel closed her eyes. The tears finally slipped, thick and heavy, while her head moved in denial, as if telling herself this couldn’t happen.
Quinn saw.
And felt her heart break.
Rachel regretted it the moment Quinn got up and walked out the door.
After that day, they never spoke again.
*
At seven-fifteen, Barbie was already ready. She chattered excitedly about how thrilled she was for her first day, how her new school was huge, with a big football field, a basketball court, extracurricular activities…
Meanwhile, Rachel listened attentively, pausing to comment now and then, while finishing her small skincare routine before applying makeup.
— And do you know which extracurricular activity you’re going to sign up for? — Rachel asked while dabbing a bit of concealer under her eyes.
— Well, Mr. Schue has already summoned me to join the glee club, so…
Berry burst into laughter.
— Yeah, maybe raising you surrounded by all my friends and our glee club teacher didn’t give you much of a choice.
Barbie smiled.
— Having Rachel Berry as a mother didn’t either!
It was Rachel’s turn to laugh.
— Yeah, you’re right. Either way, I’d write your name on that board and stick a gold star next to it.
— Board? Come on, Mom! It’s an online form. — Barbie teased, earning a look from her mother. — Alright, alright. I’ll put an emoji.
Rachel raised an eyebrow.
— Very funny, Barbara Liza Berry. Call your mother old between the lines again, and you’ll lose your ride to school!
Barbie just laughed, amused. It was a common dynamic between them.
Finally, Rachel finished applying her lipstick, grabbed her bag, and mother and daughter walked out together toward William McKinley.
And another school year began.
*
The sound of the trunk closing echoed through the cold morning air, reverberating like a period at the end of a decade of memories. Quinn Fabray looked at the house one last time, the familiar façade now just a frozen scene in time, about to be left behind.
Ten years.
For a decade, that quiet street in Chicago had been her home. Beth had grown up there, among the laughter of neighborhood children, birthdays decorated with colorful balloons, and windows glowing on winter nights. Now, each of these details became a memory to be carried in their luggage.
Now, they were saying goodbye and had a long journey ahead.
Lima, Ohio. The name weighed like a sentence.
— Beth! We need to go, or we’ll get there after sunset!
Quinn cupped her hands around her mouth, making sure her voice reached her daughter. The call echoed through the yard, cutting through the morning silence.
Beth didn’t respond right away. She stood on the porch, hugging herself as if trying to absorb every particle of that place before leaving. Fifteen years of life, and now she had to start over from scratch. The city that had welcomed her since she was five was now a part of her. Quinn understood. But that didn’t make things any easier.
Beth wanted to stay.
She wanted her room, her books, her routines. She wanted to hate the same people, love the same friends. But instead, she was being pulled away from comfort to start anew somewhere else.
A place she had visited only a few times. A place she knew her mother avoided at all costs.
The teenager sighed and finally walked to the car, hands stuffed into the pockets of her hoodie. Quinn watched her. Beth had always been careful with her expressions—she showed only what was necessary, only what she wanted others to see. But there was something there, hidden deep in her brown eyes, that betrayed her discomfort.
Quinn gave a small smile, an attempt to lighten the mood.
— I know you don’t want to go, but you understand that Grandma needs us, right?
Beth hesitated before nodding.
— I know, Mom. I’m not mad at you or anything. I’m just… grieving.
Quinn rolled her eyes, a smirk forming at the theatrical drama in her daughter’s voice.
— Come on. It’s a four-hour drive, and we still need to stop for lunch.
Beth groaned as she climbed into the car.
— Can I at least pick the music?
Quinn shrugged.
— Sounds fair.
The car came to life, the engine humming softly as the house faded in the rearview mirror, shrinking into the distance until it was swallowed by the horizon. On the playlist, "It’s Time to Go" by Taylor Swift started playing.
Beth couldn’t have picked a better song.
The hours on the road dragged as if time had slowed. Quinn tried to make conversation, but Beth answered in monosyllables, lost in her own thoughts. The teenager stared out the window, watching the scenery change, feeling further and further away from the life she was leaving behind.
Meanwhile, her mother attempted to list the reasons why Lima could be a good place. But the truth was, she didn’t have many.
Because, deep down, Quinn knew that Lima had always been a graveyard for her dreams, a town haunted by old versions of herself. And now, ironically, here she was — returning to the place she swore never to set foot in again. Three hundred and seventy kilometers and a car full of luggage to cross a past she had never been able to fully bury.
But there was a good reason: Judy Fabray.
Her mother had suffered a heart attack weeks earlier, and after tests and diagnoses, the news came — heart problems that would require prolonged treatment. Quinn knew she couldn’t ignore it. Her mother had been her foundation when she needed it most, and now it was her turn to repay the favor.
For years, it had been the two of them against the world. Judy had helped raise Beth from day one. She had been a mother and a grandmother, a support and a fortress. When Quinn got into Yale, Judy took care of her granddaughter during the week and moved to New Haven, making her daughter’s routine a little less overwhelming.
Until things changed and Chicago appeared as a tempting invitation, a promise of stability.
— You have to accept it. — Judy insisted when Quinn received an offer to be a real estate agent at a major firm.
— But what about you?
— I’ll go back to Lima. — Judy smiled. — I won’t be alone there.
After many conversations and negotiations, Quinn finally gave in. She moved to Chicago, and Beth went with her.
It was supposed to be a permanent decision. But now, they were going back.
Beth never questioned leaving Chicago. She simply accepted it. But acceptance didn’t mean liking it.
A long silence filled the car until Beth suddenly broke it, without warning:
— Mom?
Quinn glanced away from the road for a second.
— Yeah?
— Does Dad still live in Lima?
The air felt heavier.
Quinn gripped the steering wheel tightly, feeling her fingers tingle.
She hadn’t expected that question. Beth rarely talked about Noah Puckerman, but when she did, it was like pulling a skeleton out of the closet.
— I don’t know. But I hope not.
Beth sighed, resting her forehead against the window.
— Yeah, I guess.
Quinn studied her out of the corner of her eye, feeling a tightness in her chest.
Beth didn’t know that Puck never showed up by choice. That the flimsy excuses about the army were just that — excuses. And Quinn never told her because she knew all too well the pain of realizing your own father simply chose not to be there.
The last time Puck showed up, Beth was four. Quinn was still in New Haven.
And there he was.
— What are you doing here? — Quinn asked, crossing her arms.
Puck stepped forward, looking hesitant.
— I came to see the kid.
Quinn let out a dry laugh.
— The kid has a name. And she’s asleep. It’s ten at night.
He sighed, already seeming to know he had no chance.
— Quinn, I just… I think we should try again. We were good together, most of the time. It would be good for our daughter.
Quinn stared at him for a moment, trying to determine if he actually believed the words coming out of his mouth.
— Our daughter? — She repeated, each syllable dripping with irony. — Since when, Puckerman? In all the times I called and you ignored me? In all the broken promises? In all the questions she asked about you that I didn’t have answers for?
He said nothing. And after that night, he never came back.
A few occasional messages, a couple of likes on photos on social media, but never anything more than that.
Did Quinn think about him? Rarely.
Puck was just one of the many ghosts that Lima held. But he wasn’t the only ghost waiting for her there. Because there was another presence that haunted her mind: Rachel Berry — the only one who, even without meaning to, still had a space of her own inside Quinn.
The name she avoided mentioning. The name Santana and Brittany had tried so many times to drag out of her.
— So, you’re really gonna pretend you and Berry didn’t have a breakup from whatever weird thing you two had? — Santana asked.
— I don’t know what you’re talking about, Santana.
— Are you sure you don’t wanna talk, Q? — Brittany insisted. — You seem sad.
Quinn looked away.
— I’m fine, Britt. I swear.
And, eventually, the questions stopped. But every now and then, a memory would hit her without warning, and she’d wonder why.
Until she forgot again.
And the cycle repeated.
*
The road finally turned into familiar streets. Lima was right in front of them, exactly as Quinn remembered: no big changes, no surprises. Small, quiet, unchanging.
Beth, in the passenger seat, observed through the window with a neutral expression. Neither curiosity nor disgust. Just silent acceptance.
— Looks… ordinary. — she commented, crossing her arms.
Quinn let out a nasal laugh.
— Ordinary is a good word for this.
But Quinn knew that beneath this usual appearance, Lima hid its scars. Some visible, others buried deep enough to be forgotten—at least in theory.
Judy Fabray’s house appeared as they turned the last corner. The same as always, with the impeccable white fence, the meticulously cared-for garden, and the lit-up windows bathing the sidewalk in a warm, familiar glow.
Beth let out a long sigh, as if gathering strength.
Quinn parked, and before she could move, the front door was already opening. Judy came out quickly, a light coat over her shoulders, her face illuminated by a genuine smile.
— We’re here. — said Quinn, more to herself than to her daughter.
— My girls. Finally! I thought you’d get lost on the way.
Beth was the first to get out of the car and, to Quinn’s surprise, ran to her grandmother, throwing her arms around her.
— Grandma!
Judy laughed, hugging her tightly.
— Oh, my dear, you’re so big! Taller than your mother, I bet!
— That’s not hard. — Beth joked, glancing playfully at Quinn, who just rolled her eyes before finally getting out of the car.
Quinn and her mother looked at each other for a brief second. Judy noticed the exhaustion in her daughter’s eyes. And Quinn realized that, despite everything, this place was still a home.
So, without saying anything, she simply hugged her.
— I missed you, Mom.
Judy stroked her daughter’s hair and smiled.
— I know, sweetheart. I missed you too.
A brief silence settled in until Judy broke it.
— Come on. The food is ready.
Beth smiled.
— If there’s food, I’m in.
Quinn laughed and grabbed the suitcases from the car, following the two inside.
The table was set, and the smell of homemade food filled the air. Beth served herself first, clearly starving, while Quinn and Judy settled in.
— So, Beth, — Judy began, looking at her granddaughter. — excited to start at your new school?
Beth shrugged.
— Not really. But I don’t have much choice, do I?
Quinn shot her a warning look, but Judy just smiled.
— Believe me, honey, I understand you. But who knows, maybe it’ll turn out to be a good experience?
Beth didn’t seem convinced. That’s when Judy decided to drop the information with a sparkle in her eyes.
— Oh, and did you know you’ll be studying at the same school your mother attended?
Beth stopped chewing. Quinn, on the other hand, tensed up.
— Mom… — she murmured in a warning tone.
Judy ignored her.
— William McKinley! The same school where your mother was a cheerleader, president of the celibacy club, and, of course, prom queen.
Beth raised her eyebrows, clearly intrigued.
— Wait… you were popular?
— That’s irrelevant. — Quinn quickly brushed it off, stuffing a piece of food in her mouth.
Beth narrowed her eyes.
— You never talk about your high school years.
— Because there’s nothing to talk about.
Judy let out an amused laugh.
— Your mother pretends she doesn’t like to remember, but she had some memorable moments.
Beth leaned forward on the table.
— Like what?
Judy smiled.
— Well, there was that time she walked around school dressed as Lady Gaga with her friends…
— Mom! — Quinn’s eyes widened.
Beth laughed, delighted.
— I need to see this.
— No, you don’t.
— Oh, and of course, there was the Glee Club. Your mother sang beautifully.
Beth blinked, surprised.
— You were in the choir?
Quinn sighed.
— Let’s just say I was… dragged into it.
Beth smiled.
— Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.
Quinn fell silent, watching her daughter.
As much as she avoided recalling those years, part of her knew that without Lima, without McKinley, without Glee Club, she wouldn’t have Beth.
And if there was anything worth going through everything for, it was her daughter.
After dinner, Beth threw herself on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Quinn’s old room was now hers. The walls painted light blue, with some traces of the past still there—a bookshelf, a full-length mirror, a study desk worn by time.
Quinn stood at the door, watching her.
— Comfortable?
Beth nodded.
— It’s weird. Sleeping in your old room.
— It’s a room like any other.
Beth turned to her side, resting her head on her hand.
— I think I’ll survive.
Quinn smiled and sat on the edge of the bed. For a few moments, they just stayed there, mother and daughter, in shared silence.
Then the younger one broke the quiet.
— Did you have to start over many times?
Quinn thought for a moment before answering.
— More than I’d like.
— And was it hard?
— Always.
Beth sighed.
— But is it worth it?
Quinn looked at her daughter, her grown-up girl, and smiled.
— Always.
Beth hesitated before moving closer and wrapping her mother in a tight hug. Quinn closed her eyes for a moment, soaking in the moment.
There was no haunted town big enough to make her regret her journey. She was exactly where she was meant to be.
And that was all that mattered.