Ten o’clock in the morning.

Twelve hours had passed since my death.

My body lay cold and stiff on the attic floor, already beginning to rot.

Outside, the world kept turning.

My brother left for school with his friends, laughing like nothing had changed.

My father went to work, briefcase in hand, as punctual as ever.

And my mother? She dressed herself up beautifully—flawless makeup, a fitted dress—to bask in the glory of her career.

By four o’clock that afternoon, the Golden Grace Dance finals came to a close.

Serena, her prized student, didn’t disappoint. She danced her way to the championship and stood beaming on stage, golden trophy in hand.

The crowd cheered. Applause thundered.

With a radiant smile, she handed the winner’s bouquet to my mother and said, “Thank you for everything, Teacher. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

My mother’s face lit up with pride. She was glowing—like this victory was her own.

And as I watched from the silence of death, I couldn’t help but remember the first time I ever gave her flowers.

I was seven.

It was her birthday, and I had seen other children buying little cakes and flower bouquets for their moms. I watched the neighborhood aunties lean down, kiss their children’s cheeks, and say “Thank you, baby. Mommy loves you!”

I wanted that too.

I wanted one kiss. One gentle hug. One kind word.

So I saved every coin from my meager pocket money for weeks. I picked out a bouquet of the prettiest flowers I could afford—bright and cheerful, just like the ones I’d seen in the movies.

I ran home, bursting with excitement, clutching those flowers like a treasure.

Naively, I imagined she would open her arms and smile at me. That she’d kneel down, hug me close, and whisper, “Thank you, sweetheart. Mommy loves you so much.”

But the moment she saw me, her face twisted into something monstrous.

She snatched the bouquet from my hands, flung it to the ground, and crushed the petals beneath her heels.

The scent of crushed flowers mixed with her fury.

“Who told you to show your face?” she screamed. “Get out! Every time I see you, I want to strangle you!”

I ran as fast as I could, slipping on the scattered petals and sticky flower juice. But even then, even after that, I still hoped she might change.

That was the day I learned the truth:

My mother didn’t love me.

And she never would.

But I was just a child, and children always ask the same question when they’re hurt:

Why?

Why didn’t she love me?

Why would a mother not love her own child?

And why—if she hated me so much—did she choose to bring me into this world in the first place?

At the height of her glory, just as the applause for Serena reached its peak, a group of police officers pushed through the crowd.