After My Death, My Family Finally Got Their Wish

I died in the third year after my parents sent me back to the mountain region. This was to make way for their adopter daughter to marry my fiancé. My parents sent me back to the mountains where they had found me. Overwhelmed with despair, I knelt on the ground and begged them to take me back. But I found their eyes filled with indifference and they scolded me, calling me a selfish and ungrateful girl, insisting that I relinquish my fiancé.

Three years later, at the first birthday party of their adopted daughter’s child, when they called me and received no answer, they turned against me. Believing that I still harbored a grudge and cursing me to die in anger. This time, their wish was fulfilled. Because I am already dead. In a dirty, stinking cow shed.

***

I died three years after my parents sent me back to the mountains. My soul wandered and somehow, I returned to a place I knew, my old home.

The house was ablaze with light, each room sparkling under the glow of crystal chandeliers and elegant lamps. The atmosphere was vibrant, with guests arriving in a steady stream, their chatter mingling with the clinking of glasses and the soft strains of background music. The clinking of glasses created a rhythmic symphony, a backdrop to the lively exchange of toasts and well-wishes. I watched a video playing on the large screen in the main room. The people in it looked happy and warm. They were celebrating the first birthday of Abigail's daughter.

Abigail hurried over to her parents with the baby in her arms. Her face looked worried.

“Mom, Dad, haven’t you been able to reach her yet?” she asked.

My mother looked at her phone screen, her face unhappy. “She’s always so dramatic. Just because of a trivial issue, she hasn’t contacted us for three years!”

My brother, Alexander, wore a bored expression, his fists clenched tightly. He chimed in, “Why are you asking about her? Have you forgotten? She made you so depressed that you tried to kill yourself. No one wants her here. She’s just a jinx!”

“Don’t say that,” Abigail interjected. Her face looked sad and she appeared like a gentle and innocent woman. “I think it’s enough. Lily must have realized her mistakes. I guess she doesn’t want to come back because she’s still angry and hates me for taking Oliver from her.”

Tears fell down her cheeks as she spoke. I sat on the piano bench nearby, watching her performance with a clenched jaw. Three years had passed and Abigail was still very good at pretending. The sorrowful expression on her face was a far cry from the one she wore when she grabbed my hair, dragged me along and forced me to kneel like a dog.

“Listen, Abi, you are the only person I love. I’ve only loved you all along, so don’t say that you took me away from her.”

Oliver, my former fiancé, who had once professed his love for me and openly asked me to be his wife, now stood with Abigail. The sight was almost surreal. He held her close, his arms wrapped around her in a protective embrace. His lips brushed gently against her forehead, a gesture filled with warmth and affection that should have been mine.

The same man who had once sworn his devotion to me was now lavishing all the tenderness and care he had promised me upon someone else. It felt like a cruel twist of fate, a harsh reminder of how swiftly and completely things could change.

My place in Oliver’s life, once so secure and cherished, had been replaced with this new reality. His affection for Abigail was a stark, painful contrast to the devotion he had once claimed to have for me. It was as if all those promises and vows had been nothing but fleeting shadows, dissipating into the bright light of his newfound happiness. How sweet. How ironic.

“It’s not your fault, Honey,” said my mother, smoothing Abigail’s hair. “She’s just an outsider. She’s the mistress. She doesn’t deserve to be loved, so don’t feel guilty about her.”

Yep. That was me. The outsider. The one who never quite fit in, no matter how hard I tried. I was the abandoned child, left to navigate life’s complexities on my own. In a world that seemed to revolve around connections and belonging, I felt like I was perpetually on the outside looking in.

In romance, I was the pitiful one. Every attempt at love felt like an uphill battle, a struggle to convince someone that I was worth their time, their heart. Rejected time and again, I wondered if I was simply unworthy of the affection and care that others seemed to find so effortlessly.

Family relationships weren’t much different. There was this constant, gnawing sense of being the odd one out, the one who didn’t quite measure up. It was as if my presence was a reminder of something unwanted or unfulfilled. I found myself sidelined, yearning for acceptance and understanding that always seemed to elude me. I was rejected everywhere—by romance, by family, by the world.

Hearing of unpleasant remarks of how rude I am, Alexander, who had always harbored a deep-seated hatred for me, found his anger reaching new heights. His face reddened with rage as he cursed aloud, “That bitch! If only she had never been found. We were better off without her. I hope she just died in a ditch somewhere!”

I turned my gaze toward my parents, desperate to see even a flicker of anger or disapproval in their eyes after hearing Alexander’s harsh words. But, as always, there was nothing. Their faces were as impassive and unaffected as stone, devoid of any emotion or concern. It was as if Alexander’s venomous outburst hadn’t even pierced their indifference.

Instead of addressing the cruelty of Alexander’s curse, my mother stepped forward with a facade of concern and began to comfort Abigail. The stark contrast between her feigned empathy and the reality of our situation was almost unbearable. It was clear that, in their eyes, I was the source of all discord. My existence had become an unwanted shadow over their so-called happiness.

The realization hit me with crushing clarity: They were all wishing for my death. My departure, it seemed, was the final solution to their problems. Without me around, there would be no one left to interfere with their ideal family dynamic. Abigail could finally enjoy her place in the sun without my presence looming over her. Their picture-perfect family of four would no longer be disturbed by my unwanted presence.

It felt like a bitter, twisted joke. In their eyes, I was already gone, my presence erased from their lives. The cruel irony was almost too much to bear. I should offer them congratulations because, in their minds, they had finally achieved what they had always wanted. I was dead to them and with that final, figurative death, they could revel in the peace they had longed for.

I should congratulate them, because finally, they got what they’ve always wanted. I was already dead.