I missed my brother Wilton Murray's three final calls before he jumped into the river, so my parents blamed his death on me.

From that day on, they wished it had been me who died.

One day, an enemy my dad Rayan Murray made through his job as a policeman kidnapped me for revenge.

I called Dad for help, but he declined it and hissed, "We never should have taken you back!"

Then I called my mom, Chelsea Larson, a doctor. She also hung up on me impatiently after muttering, "Are you pulling this stunt because you know we're visiting Wilty's grave today? Stop your drama. You'll always be a sinner!"

No one came to my rescue, so I got beaten for 24 hours straight. By the time I was dumped in front of the police station, I was a bloody, unrecognizable mess.

Four days after my death, however, my whole family was consumed by guilt.

***

The next day after I died, Dad, standing outside the police station, finally saw the desperate text I'd sent him two days earlier.

The message had only two words: "Help me," mixed with misplaced punctuation from my frantic, fumbling fingers.

After one glance, Dad blocked my number with a frown.

He couldn't even be bothered to send a single rebuke.

I watched him in my ghost form, my heart sinking to the bottom.

I should have known he wouldn't care. After all, he and Mom both wished I were dead.

Right then, two cops who'd just finished the night shift walked out of the station.

Dad greeted them casually, but their faces were grim.

"Rayan, when we were about to leave this morning, we found a dead body dropped off right at the entrance.

"The security cameras were tampered with. We think it's a deliberate taunt. You'd better take a look."

With them clocking out, the case got handed to Dad.

The body was transferred to the autopsy room. The medical examiner, Tristan Wagner, unzipped the bag, revealing a gruesome corpse.

It took me a few moments to recognize that the body was mine.

Tristan shook his head, his face a mask of pity. "Preliminary call—looks like the victim was a teenage girl."

Dad froze, his face instantly turning cold.

"What a monster," he cursed. "She was so young."

He wasn't a man given to outward emotion, but even he was shaken by the sight.

"My son was only nineteen when we lost him. If the girl's parents ever saw this... I can't even imagine how heartbroken they'd be."

I stared at his face, a bitter irony burning inside me.

If they knew it was me lying there, would they be sad at all? They'd probably be overjoyed.

"Rayan, it's been years. You need to find a way to let it go," Tristan persuaded him before turning back to his work.

Dad took one last, long look at my body and stepped outside to smoke a cigarette.

"What kind of hatred drives someone to do this? How brutal!" Tristan's voice carried from the autopsy room.

Dad, returning from his smoke, heard the comment and moved closer.

"The victim's face is unrecognizable. There's massive subcutaneous and internal bleeding. The entire body is covered in bruises from the beating. There isn't a single patch of unbroken skin. Even the subcutaneous tissue and muscle have been pulped.

"And there's no single fatal wound. The cause of death is hypovolemic shock from extensive subcutaneous and soft tissue bleeding. This was a sustained torture!

"She was beaten to death. And she only weighed 40 kg. Seriously, how the hell did her family take care of her?"

Dad, now fully grasping the case's brutality, knitted his brows.

"The killer was careful. No clues were left behind. It'll take some time to reconstruct her face," Tristan added.

Then he solemnly patted Dad's shoulder.

"Rayan, this might be a crime of revenge. You need to inform the squad and tell them to be vigilant about their families' safety, especially the kids."

Dad's face darkened at the mention of kids.

"Well, that horrible daughter of mine is better off dead. It'll be her atonement for Wilton. She's a sinner anyway."

Four years ago, my brother called me three times before he jumped into the river.

I'd fallen asleep right after dance practice, completely exhausted, and missed them.

I woke up to the news that he was gone. They never even found his body.

After that, I became the "sinner" in my parents' eyes.

They both came to wish I were dead instead. No matter how hard I tried to be perfect over the next four years, it never erased their hatred.

"Rayan!" Tristan's voice was sharp. "What if your child heard you say that? You've already lost one kid. Are you trying to lose another?

"If you keep treating her this way, you will regret it someday!"

Dad's jaw tightened, his voice rising. "I don't care what she thinks! All I know is if she'd picked up that phone, Wilton would still be alive! He was asking for help, and no one was there for him!

"He ... was only eighteen. "He even got into that aerospace college! He could've had such a bright future. He was supposed to be the pride of our whole family! And that damn girl ruined it all!

"I just wish it'd been her who died!"

His words hit me like a physical blow, sending a chill through my body.

I'd heard it a thousand times, but it still hurt.

This wasn't just an angry outburst. He genuinely wished I were dead.

Every year on Wilton's death anniversary, they'd slam his photo in my face.

With red-rimmed eyes, they'd grip my neck, demanding over and over, "Why couldn't it have been you?"

They never knew I hated myself just as much as they did.

And I had stomach cancer. I was gonna pay for what I "did" soon enough.

Maybe even fate despised me, making me die such a brutal death as my final punishment.

"Mom, Dad, if you knew, you'd probably be happy," I thought bitterly.

Tristan gave Dad a long, conflicted look before finally speaking, "Alright, that's enough. She's finished her SATs. Once she's off at college, you won't have to see her anyway."

Dad snorted dismissively, "Hmph, someone with her brains could get into college? She's not fit to hold a candle to Wilton."

My chest tightened. I'd been right not to show them my acceptance letter.

No matter what I achieved, it would never be enough for them.

Just then, Tristan handed Dad a clear evidence bag containing a watch and a small bottle of pills.

The second I saw that watch, I became nervous.

"We found these on the victim. The watch might help locate the parents. The pills are prescription. Check which hospital dispensed them. Their records should give us a direct ID."

Dad took the bag. He gave the contents a cursory glance and nodded.

A wave of bitter sadness washed over me. So, he'd forgotten after all.

That watch was the gift Dad gave me the day I came home after being rescued from the traffickers in the remote area.

He'd said back then, even if I got lost again someday, as long as I had that watch, no matter what I looked like, he'd always recognize me.

But then again, he didn't care enough to even recognize me, let alone a watch.

The watch had stopped working on a rainy night four years prior.

The first three years after I came home were the happiest of my life. But after Wilton died, they started wishing for my death.

Back then, I was still naive enough to believe I was their child too, and that leaving would make them miss me.

I sulked in an arcade until midnight, hoping they'd come looking for me.

And they did, only to punish me.

They beat the crap out of me, and the watch was smashed on the ground and broken.

Dad had pointed a trembling finger in my face, screaming, "Go on, run away again! If it weren't for Wilton insisting we find you back then, do you really think we'd have bothered to?!"

That night, my lingering hope for their love was shattered completely.

After finishing up work, Dad headed home.

As usual, the first thing he did was pay his respects at Wilton's shrine.

It had been my parents' ritual for four years.

Mom came home too and went straight to pray before Wilton's photo.

Once they were done, Dad handed the bottle of pills to Mom.

"Can you check at the hospital who this prescription was issued to? We need it to ID a victim."

For a brief moment, when she saw the pills, something flickered in Mom's eyes.

Watching her, I thought maybe she'd sensed something.

But the next moment, she took the bottle calmly and examined it.

"This is for pain relief," she said. "I'll look into it in two days."

Dad agreed and reminded her to be careful lately.

She proceeded to check all the doors and windows, then made dinner.

By the time dinner was ready, she still hadn't thought of me.

They had missed another chance to quickly identify me, and my hopes faded once more.

Mom had seen me take this medication. She'd even seen me accidentally cough up blood.

What had she said then?

"Wilton's death anniversary is coming up, and you're acting out again? If you're going to vomit blood, do it outside. Don't bring bad luck into this house."

They sat down at the table, setting a plate and a fork out for Wilton as they always did.

Only then did Mom remember me, and she sounded annoyed.

"I just saw Bethanne's message today. What's she up to now? She's been gone for two days, and she lied about getting kidnapped?

"She's old enough to know better. She might as well just stay at that arcade and not come back—acting like it's all real."

I was stunned. They'd forgotten the watch they gave me and my medication.

But they perfectly remembered my one attempt at running away.

Dad's face was impassive as he served himself food.

"She texted me too. Who knows what trick she's playing now, saying stuff like that so casually.

"We never should have brought her back in the first place."

His annoyance was plain to see.

I stared in disbelief, unable to believe that a police officer could say such a thing.

If it weren't for how they'd wept when they found me, I'd have thought they lost me on purpose.

But I wasn't lying. Something terrible had happened to me.

They condemned me in a chorus of accusations.

A bitter laugh escaped me. Part of me wished they'd never found me, too.

That way, they could have kept their perfect, happy family.

And I might have had a hard life, but I'd still be alive.

I let out a sigh and retreated into the corner of the room.

My parents ate in silence. I recalled how nice it had been when I first came home.

The four of us sat around the dinner table, and they were serving food onto my plate.

They smiled, their caring eyes fixed on my face; it was all so cozy and beautiful.

Those three years were the only truly happy time in my life.

Later, I wasn't even allowed to eat at the table. The meat I got was what was left after the stray cats had eaten.

The heavy silence was finally broken by a ringtone.

Mom answered it, her voice dripping with impatience, "So, you finally decided to call?"

The voice on the other end of the line made her pause for a second.

It was her cousin. "Having dinner? Hey, Chelsea, the SAT scores came out recently, right? How did Bethanne do? My daughter scored high enough for a top-tier college! Bethanne always looked so hardworking. She wasn't too far behind Wilton, was she?"

Even knowing our family situation, some relatives couldn't resist showing off and kicking us when we were down.

The second my name came up, both their faces soured.

But Mom did not attempt to defend me. She let out a dismissive snort.

"She's not capable of that. She's been out messing around without a word for days now. That good-for-nothing can't hold a candle to her brother."

Her cousin tried to say more, but Mom hung up abruptly, her expression grim.

"How ridiculous. How could someone as foolish as her ever get into college?"

The call ruined Mom's appetite. She turned and retreated to her bedroom.

Dad remained at the table, his face gloomy, lost in his own thoughts.

Mom wasn't wrong. I had been left slow-witted, a lasting effect of the severe fever.

One day, toward the end of my sophomore year of high school, the weather turned bad, and it began to rain heavily.

All the other kids were picked up by their parents.

I waited for the rain to let up, but by dusk, it was only coming down harder.

For the first time, I called my parents, hoping they could come get me.

But before I could finish, they refused outright.

In the end, I ran home through the pouring rain.

And I caught a cold and ran a high fever all night.

The next morning, my head throbbing and heavy, I gathered my courage to ask, "Mom, Dad, I have a fever. Can I have some money to go to see a doctor?"

Mom slammed her fork down. "What does your fever have to do with me? You dare ask me for money? You're not a child anymore! Stop being so dramatic! Can't you just tough it out?"

I tried to explain, but Dad cut me off, "You got caught in the rain yesterday, and now you're pulling this? Or do you think we're mistreating you?

"Wilton never acted like this when he was your age. We never had to worry about him with stuff like this."

They brought Wilton into it, and any further words died in my throat.

Coincidentally, they were visiting Wilton's grave that day.

I had to lie back down on the bed, hoping that sponging myself with cool water would bring the fever down.

In my hazy, half-conscious state, I heard my parents leave.

"I think she's just acting up because she knows we're visiting Wilty today. How pathetic! Wilty came to me in a dream last night and said he wanted to eat the steaks I cooked. Let's go before they get cold."

That jolted me awake.

The sheets were soaked with sweat, but my temperature was still frighteningly high.

Back then, I still wanted to live. So, I dragged my exhausted body out of the house.

I wandered the streets in a daze, thinking I could beg for some medicine at a pharmacy.

I didn't get far before I passed out.

I woke up in a hospital bed.

Realizing where I was, my first thought was of my parents' fury if they discovered me here.

Before I could slip away, a doctor came in with a diagnosis. He said I had a stomach ulcer and needed treatment, or it could turn into cancer.

I couldn't put into words how I felt in that moment.

I found myself thinking: If they know, will they care just a little bit?

My parents rushed to the hospital after getting the news.

Their red-rimmed eyes made me foolishly hopeful. I eagerly handed them the diagnosis.

"Mom, Dad, see? I wasn't lying. I'm really sick. Look..."

Mom snatched the paper, tore it into pieces, and threw them in my face.

"You're really something, aren't you? You just have to stir up all this trouble! This is all your fault! And you had to make everyone know about it! You've embarrassed the family!

"Fainting in the street? Who are you trying to fool with your pathetic act!"

She grabbed my collar and yanked me out of the bed, her eyes burning with rage.

"Why didn't the fever just finish you off?!

"You sinner! You're why Wilty's dead! You should be the one who died! Why are you still alive?!"

That day, in the hospital ward, everyone stared at me with eyes full of disdain, like I was some criminal.

Their icy indifference shattered the last fragile shard of hope I had clung to.

Because of a long, relentless fever, I was left with aftereffects.

My memory started to fail me.

Because of this, my grades began to plummet.

My parents' scoldings turned even harsher, their words like whips cracking against my skin.

They sneered that I'd never measure up to Wilton and even cut off my allowance. They said I'd only get it back once my grades caught up to his.

Desperate, I threw myself into studying, chasing Wilton's shadow with every ounce of strength I had.

He dreamed of becoming a pilot, so I set my sights on the same horizon, pushing forward despite the odds.

Even with my memory faltering like a flickering light, I clawed my way into the same school as Wilton, against all expectations.

The day my SAT scores came out, excitement bubbled up inside me like champagne.

But after mulling it over for days, I kept it to myself, not breathing a word to my parents.

Deep down, I knew my fragile health would never let me set foot on that campus.

And I dreaded stirring up memories of Wilton—it would only reopen old wounds, making them grieve all over again. I couldn't bear to hurt them like that.

Besides, what was the point? In their eyes, I'd never shine as brightly as Wilton, never become the child they truly wanted.

The next afternoon, the house was filled with the aroma of a lavish dinner spread out on the table—but once again, there was no place set for me.

My mom sat at the table, her patience fraying, and finally snatched up her phone.

She tapped into my chat window, irritation boiling over as she sent a voice message.

"You've got some nerve! If you don't come home today, don't bother coming back at all!"

I let out a bitter laugh.

If that was how she wanted to play it, fine—I wouldn't back down. Even if they hunted me down, I wouldn't return.

But suddenly, I saw my number light up with a reply, "Okay."

My mom's eyes widened in shock, her hand trembling uncontrollably.

I froze for a second too, but then it hit me—this was the killer's doing, sending that message.

Fury exploded from Mom; she hurled the phone across the room. After all, she'd never seen me so detached, so cold.

"That ungrateful brat! She's going to be the death of me!"

She'd rather believe I'd spout something like that than question if it was really from me.

My dad picked up the shattered phone, glanced at the screen, and his brow furrowed deep.

Just as he opened his mouth to speak, a knock echoed at the door, followed by a voice that was both achingly familiar and strangely distant.

"Mom, Dad, it's me. Are you home?"

I watched my usually stoic father, his face twisting with a flicker of shock.

And my ever-composed mother, her eyes bulging wide, her lips parted, as if she'd forgotten how to breathe.

She whispered in disbelief, "Rayan... am I dreaming? I swear I just heard Wilton's voice."

My fists clenched. He walked slowly toward the door, visibly shaking.

He cracked it open just a sliver, and there stood a young man, confident but a little hesitant.

Their beloved son, whom they thought I'd doomed to death, had miraculously returned.

Dad's eyes bulged in shock, his voice choking with emotion. "Wilty... is it really you?"

Wilton looked older and steadier, his eyes rimming red with tears as he nodded. "Dad, yeah, it's me. I'm so sorry I took this long to come back."

Dad seemed on the verge of saying more, but waves of overwhelming feeling crashed over him; he sank to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, words lost in the flood.

"Wilty... it's really you. This isn't a dream—I'm not imagining it!"

My mom bolted forward, wrapping him in a fierce embrace.

"Wilton, where have you been all these years? Why didn't you come home if you were alive? We thought you'd died..."

She scanned him from head to toe, her gaze frantic, as if terrified he'd vanish into thin air. This was their son, the one they'd mourned for four agonizing years.

Wilton's voice trembled with regret. "I'm sorry, Mom and Dad. I didn't mean to worry you. I just wanted to strike out on my own and prove I could make it without following the path you laid out for me.

"Look at me now—I've made it. I'm running my own business, pulling in 200,000 dollars a year."

My mom gazed at him, her eyes swirling with a mix of exasperation and love. She raised a hand as if to swat him but couldn't bring herself to do it, her touch turning gentle instead.

Dad, steadying his breath, ushered him inside and asked softly, almost tentatively, "So, when you left, why did you call Bethanne? And that message you sent us about her... Why did you send that?"

He was talking about the message Wilton had left behind before disappearing—the one that said he was leaving for good and wanted them to take care of me.

"I wanted you to look after her properly," Wilton explained. "She'd been through hell after being abducted. I only called to check on her... but she didn't answer."

He sighed with genuine sorrow, but my parents' faces darkened, shadows creeping in.

Before they could press further, Wilton continued, his tone shifting.

"Actually, there was another reason I left back then. I was scared you wouldn't accept who I love, so I just... vanished."

"But now, I hope you'll welcome my partner into the family."

He locked eyes with them, his stare unwavering, filled with quiet determination.

My parents exchanged a glance, then smiled warmly. "Having someone special is wonderful—we'll accept them, no questions asked. At this point, whatever makes you happy, we're on board!"

Wilton drew in a deep breath, holding their gaze.

"Even if he's a guy? Can you accept that?"

Wilton stepped aside, ushering in his lover—a sweet, boyish young man with delicate features.

Matching rings glinted on their fingers, a silent testament to their bond.

The man shyly murmured, "Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Murray."

Dad's hand shook visibly; he tried to speak, but only a heavy sigh escaped.

My mom stared for a heartbeat or two, her disbelief hanging thick in the air.

"So, you cut us off for four years... all for him? You did that just to be with him?"

Wilton went quiet, but he squeezed his partner's hand tighter, the gesture speaking volumes.

His silence was confirmation enough.

He'd faked his death and abandoned everything, just to chase this forbidden love.

A sour ache twisted in my chest, rising like bile I couldn't swallow down.

I remembered how my parents had jabbed their fingers at me, snarling that they wished it was me who'd died instead.

How, at every parent-teacher conference, mine were the only ones who never showed up.

How, after I got sick, they treated me like I was a ghost, invisible and unworthy.

How Mom once slapped me in the hospital.

And in the end, how I'd even lost my life.

I'd always blamed it on that missed call, convinced it was the domino that toppled everything.

But now, the truth hit like a thunderbolt: it was all because he wanted to pave the way for his rebellious romance.

My heart throbbed with unbearable pain. I should hate him—God, I wanted to—but the fury wouldn't stick.

Because Wilton was the one who'd pulled me from the abyss of that trafficking nightmare.

Against everyone's warnings, he'd ventured alone into that rugged place to rescue me, risking it all.

He'd been so kind. When I returned, struggling to catch up in school, he tutored me patiently, hour after hour.

He taught me to stand on my own, to shake off the shadows of the past, and to embrace a fresh start. It was him who ignited my dreams, showing me a path forward.

To me, he'd always been the hero who yanked me from the muck, my beacon in the storm.

Now, facing this cruel irony, all I could muster was a hollow laugh. What about the hell I'd endured? Did it mean nothing?

"You're back, and that's all that matters. No need to dredge up the past," my mom said, her voice edged with impatience.

Dad nodded blankly, still dazed. "Yeah, it's behind us now.

"Whatever you choose, we'll stand by you."

My mom forced a smile in their direction—a sign of reluctant approval.

Wilton's eyes sparkled with joy; he leaped up, pulling her into a jubilant hug.

"Oh, and I brought gifts for everyone," he said, unveiling the presents he'd prepared.

He glanced around the room, curiosity piqued. "Bethanne's SATs should be done by now, right? I got her a new computer—where is she?"

Even though Wilton had returned, the mention of my name still drew heavy sighs and furrowed brows from my parents.

My mom let out a resentful huff. "She's just not as clever as you. Probably flunked her SATs and is too embarrassed to show her face. She hasn't come home in days. I'll call her."

Wilton frowned slightly but didn't say anything.

The line connected, yet silence stretched on from my side.

My mom snapped irritably, "Wilty's back. Where are you? Get home right now."

When she didn't get an answer, Mom's expression soured in an instant.

She yelled into the phone, "Haven't you humiliated us enough? Hurry up and get back here! You still owe this month's rent—keep stalling, and I'll throw all your junk out!"

She'd barely finished shouting before the line went dead.

Wilton frowned in bewilderment. "Rent? You make Bethanne pay to live in her own home?"

That was right. Every month, I handed over 150 dollars to stay under their roof, or else I'd be out.

It was why, at eighteen, I barely tipped the scales at 40 kilograms. I had to squeeze rent from my meager allowance.

Under Wilton's insistent probing, my parents reluctantly confessed to all the ways they'd mistreated me.

"Don't fret," my mom hurried to say. "She's just going through that teenage rebellion. She's bolted before—probably out having fun somewhere."

Wilton's face flushed with anger, his eyes reddening with frustration.

"How can you not worry? She's a young woman out there alone—what if something happens? Don't you see the risks, given what you do for a living?

"She's been gone for days, and you didn't even search? What kind of parents are you?"

They tried to defend themselves, but Wilton was already at the door.

"Give me her number. I'll look for her myself!"

Two hours later, he slunk back, defeat written all over him.

He hadn't found me.

That made sense—my own father had stood right before my body without a spark of recognition.

Wilton had been away for years; it was only natural he wouldn't recognize me now.

He sank onto the sofa, his spirits plummeting into a deep gloom.

A moment later, guilt broke through. He covered his face with both hands, voice trembling.

"If I'd known you'd treat her this way, I never would've called or messaged. If anything's happened to her... I'll never forgive myself."

I was taken aback. I hadn't expected tears from him.

For the first time ever, someone was crying out of real concern for me.

My parents watched him, their eyes filled with aching worry.

They'd only ever looked at me like that once, on the day I was rescued and brought home.

"Wilty, don't torture yourself," Dad said gently. "She's too tough to give up. Once, she got a fever, and she dragged herself to the hospital on all fours."

"Don't blame yourself. When she comes back, we'll make it right. It's all been a misunderstanding."

Dad's voice was casual, as if it were trivial.

My mom added, "Yeah, she's got college waiting. I found her acceptance letter in her room—here, see for yourself."

She passed it over, and Wilton's turmoil eased just a touch.

Unfolding it revealed the same elite college he'd once been accepted to.

It was just like his. Only this time, it bore my name.

He froze, and I could tell it wasn't delight—it was something pained.

My mom didn't notice and smiled proudly, "Who would've thought? She actually got into your old school. Guess she's got some potential after all.

"Since you couldn't attend, it's like she's living your dream for you."

Wilton paused, then spoke with effort. "That place wasn't my dream. And it's not hers either. She told me she wanted to be a cop, just like Dad..."

"Did you pressure her?" He turned on Dad, voice laced with disbelief.

"Do you have to force your kids down the paths you pick?"

Dad met his earnest gaze, a flash of unease crossing his face.

"We'll make amends," he vowed. "From here on, we'll be a proper family. Alright?"

With that, they enveloped each other in a tearful group hug.

I observed the scene with icy detachment, a hollow laugh escaping me.

How ironic. They seemed to think they could erase the wounds they'd inflicted with belated gestures.

But it was far too late.

I was already gone, beyond any need for their reparations.

The following day, a call from the coroner, Tristan Wagner, pulled Dad in.

Tristan clutched a sheaf of documents, his expression grave and hesitant.

Dad, oblivious to the tension, bubbled with joy.

"Tristan, my son is back! We're planning a party—got any fun ideas? Spill 'em."

Tristan inhaled deeply, then thrust the files forward.

"Rayan, read it yourself. This is the victim's profile."

Dad accepted them nonchalantly, skimming through.

The moment my name leaped out, he went rigid, his smile dissolving into nothingness.