Too Late, Dad: I'm Dead Because You Trusted Her

Mary had worked in our house for many years. She knew both Dad's and my tempers and tried to persuade him softly. "Mr. Wade, Ms. Wade is still young. If you talk to her properly, she'll understand."

Dad sneered. "Stop making excuses for her. I don't care how stubborn she is. I'll crush that attitude out of her."

I really was stubborn. I never backed down or begged for mercy, even when I died. They were animals who deserved to die horribly, and I would never let them look down on me.

By the third day I was gone, my teacher, Ms. Anne Taylor, called to ask why I hadn't come to school. She also told Dad that the incident earlier had been fully investigated and confirmed that I hadn't thrown the first punch. The other student had insulted my deceased mother first.

Back then, my explanation only earned me a slap from Dad. He kicked me hard and screamed, "Your mother's been dead for ten years, and you're still hiding behind her. Why don't you just go die?"

I hit my head on the table, and blood immediately poured from my nose. I heard Ms. Taylor scream, then the other parent yelled, "No wonder she's such trash. Now I see why. There was no mother to raise her! Don't think this is over. She owes my kid an apology!"

They forced me to kneel, but I kept my mouth shut. Dad slapped me over and over, grabbing my head and slamming it down.

In the end, the other parent had enough and told him to forget it. Rain poured down that day. I was told to kneel outside the front door as punishment. I refused, and the moment he turned away, I got up and ran.

Sheila accused me of running off with some man. In a fit of rage, Dad forced me to kneel and slam my head against the floor again and again.

He especially liked forcing me to kneel in public, as if doing so could grind away my dignity and make me obedient.

I didn't care about dignity. I only wanted justice.

Ms. Taylor said, "Mr. Wade, we truly misunderstood Raena. The matter has been cleared up, and the other party is willing to apologize. Could we—"

"No need," Dad said coldly. "If she hadn't been so defiant all the time, would anyone have believed her? This is what she deserves—a lesson. Ms. Taylor, don't show her any kindness. She's beneath it."

I couldn't help but laugh at the way my father described me.

Ms. Taylor kept trying to talk some sense into him, then gave up and hung up.

Dad fiddled with the bone sculpture in his hand, and for once, he made a call to me.

The call didn't go through. He cursed me for being ungrateful, then sent a text. Among the string of insults, the last line stood out. "Your mom's birthday is in two days. If you're going to play dead, don't bother coming back for the rest of your life."

Then I wouldn't go back. She was never my mother.

Mary looked worried. "Mr. Wade, could something have happened to Ms. Wade? It's been over 48 hours already. Maybe we should call the police."

"Call the police for what?" Dad snorted. "She's not embarrassed, but I am. Does she think I'm going to give in like this? Not a chance. If she has the guts, she can stay gone forever. I'd be glad to be rid of the burden."

Mary hesitated, then let out a quiet sigh.

At Sheila's birthday banquet, Dad beamed with pride as he showed the bone sculpture to his friends. He boasted without batting an eyelid, "This was made from the femur of an 18‑year‑old girl. Top quality, straight from Khastan. You don't see something like this every day."

The people around him murmured in admiration. Someone suddenly asked, "Richie, come to think of it, your daughter should be 18 this year, right? Why didn't you celebrate her birthday?"

Dad's hand tightened around the bone sculpture. His eyes went blank for a split second before he waved it off. "Don't mention that ingrate. She'll be better off dead."