Died On The Day My Mother Gave Birth To Her Third Child

When my mother, Nancy Liam Reed, gave birth to the third child-my youngest brother-Austin at the age of forty, the entire family was overjoyed.

But I was being tortured to death at home.

In my final moments, I called my father, Mason Reed, for help: "Dad, I'm dying. Please come and save me…"

But it was my mother's cold voice that came through the phone: "You were born bad and deserve to die. Your father has to take care of your brother. Don't bother him!"

With that, she hung up the phone with a harsh click.

She did everything she could to prevent my father from coming to find me.

Tears streaming down my face, I gave up struggling and succumbed to the knife of my attacker.

On the day my mother finished her postpartum recovery, she found a severed finger in Austin's bathwater.

——

By the time the police arrived at our house, it was already early morning. My father was anxiously asking about the situation.

"Nancy, when did you find this? Was there anything unusual before you discovered it?"

My mother had already calmed down and shook her head. "No, there were no signs."

Hearing this, my father and the police officers with him grew somber.

"Could it be an enemy's provocation again?"

A young officer speculated, causing the atmosphere in the room to drop to freezing.

Both my parents worked at the police station, and over the years, they had faced numerous retaliations.

But this was the first time it had been so direct.

Thinking of this, my father immediately ordered, "We're moving out for the next few days. We must investigate this thoroughly. Such blatant behavior is a severe challenge to police authority!"

After giving the order, everyone began documenting the scene and collecting evidence.

While inspecting the washbasin, a police officer found a bracelet.

"Whose thing is this?"

It was a bracelet with a yellow safety charm, one my father had obtained for me when I was a year old.

"I don't know."

My mother said, averting her eyes in disgust while holding Austin.

As she walked away, she muttered under her breath.

"Tomorrow is my son's full-month celebration. What bad luck!"

The officer looked momentarily awkward but still placed the bracelet into an evidence bag.

In less than an hour, the house was thoroughly searched inside and out.

But there was no sign of anything unusual.

For safety, my parents decided to move out.

Before leaving, Uncle Aaron James, a family friend, asked, "What about your daughter? Shouldn't you tell her?"

"Don't mention her in front of me."

My mother said, her eyes filled with undisguised loathing, and walked away.

My father remained silent, only shaking his head and sighing.

"The grudge between them will never be resolved in this lifetime. Don't ask anymore," said my father.

Then he also walked out.

Aaron, aware of our family's situation, could only shake his head and follow them out.

I floated to the side, my heart breaking to numbness.

I knew my mother had likely guessed that the dead person could be me.

But what did it matter? Austin's full-month celebration was far more important than my life.

Watching their resolute departure, I touched my chest.

It turned out that even after death, you could still feel heartache.