After I Died, They Finally Loved Me

A wicked thought crept into my mind—I wanted him to open the door.

I wanted to see the impatience drain from his face the moment he laid eyes on my lifeless body.

Would he finally feel something?

A flicker of regret? A sliver of guilt?

Or would he just sneer, like always, and mutter, “Elara, even in death, you're disgusting.”

But that moment never came.

Asher pounded on the attic door for what felt like ages. When I didn’t answer, the annoyance in his eyes turned to ice.

He took a step back, ready to kick the door open—but just then, our father, dressed for work, stopped him.

“Leave her,” he said coolly. “If she doesn’t want to come out, then maybe she shouldn’t come out—ever again.”

Mom emerged from their bedroom, sleep-heavy and draped in silk. She curled into Dad’s arms like a pampered kitten.

Even without makeup, she was still striking—beautiful in that effortless, cruel way.

Her voice, soft and syrupy, sent a chill through me.

“Asher, bring the lock. I feed her, clothe her. Who is she rebelling against?”

“She wants to resist? Let’s see how long she lasts this time.”

Then, with a giggle, she pressed a kiss to Dad’s cheek.

Asher scoffed with jealousy, and Mom laughed, playful, brushing his hair back and tapping his forehead.

“You’re a grown man and still so clingy.”

It was a picture-perfect scene of familial warmth—one I had watched play out countless times from the shadows.

And no matter how many times it happened, it still shattered something inside me.

The only difference this time was that I couldn’t cry anymore.

Souls don’t have tears.

It wasn’t that Mom didn’t know how to love—she just chose not to love me.

To her, I was a blemish. A nuisance. A mistake.

They left the house smiling. At the door, my parents kissed goodbye like teenagers.

Dad brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and whispered sweetly, “Vivienne, go get some rest. Last night must’ve worn you out.”

Mom’s cheeks flushed. She gave him a half-hearted slap on the chest and scolded, “You’re terrible. Look what you’ve done—I can’t even nap today.”

She flipped her hair and added with pride, “My student, Serena Holloway, has a strong shot at winning the Golden Grace Dance Finals dance finals. I have to be there.”

Dad’s eyes lit up. “That gifted little dancer? No wonder you care so much.”

“She’s the most talented, beautiful, and hardworking child I’ve ever seen,” Mom beamed. “Not like Elara—bottom of her class, no ambition, always fiddling with her silly little bottles and jars. She’s an embarrassment. I should’ve never let her stay.”

When she spoke of Serena, her eyes sparkled with pride.

When she mentioned me, her lip curled in disgust.

Dad frowned. “Don’t talk about her. You’re just ruining your own good mood.”

But… Mom, Dad, do you even remember?

Your "embarrassment" used to be a straight-A student—the one the teachers praised, the one you used to brag about.