Mom Went Crazy After I Died

Mom and Aunt Denise Taylor fell off the balcony in the midst of their heated argument.

Dad rushed in just as they hit the ground, each with a broken arm. Without hesitation, he left Mom behind and hurriedly took Denise to the hospital instead.

Later, Mom filed for divorce.

Dad's face twisted in anger as he yelled, "Enough, Nicole! So what if you broke an arm and can't hold a scalpel anymore? What's the big deal? Dee is a genius designer. If she had lost her hand, her life would've been over! Of course, I had to save her first!"

Watching all this in my ghostly state, I couldn't help but laugh. Did Dad really think that Mom had only lost the use of her hand?

Mom didn't just lose her hand.

She lost me.

After all, I had severe heart failure, and the only person who could perform the life-saving surgery was Mom, the medical master herself.

But none of that matters now, because I'm already gone.

Three months after I died, Mom sent evidence of Denise Taylor's plagiarism to her fashion design company—proof that she had copied a renowned designer's work.

It didn't take long for Denise to be labeled a disgraced designer and fired from the company.

That evening, Dad went home with his face twisted in fury.

The moment he opened the door, he hurled my favorite piggy bank against the floor, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

"Nicole," he snarled, pointing a finger at Mom, "you will go to Denise's company right now and tell her boss that the evidence you sent was fake. Do you even realize what you've done? Because of your nonsense, Denise lost the job she worked ten years!"

Mom, gaunt and pale as she sat on the couch, barely moved. But when the piggy bank broke, something inside her snapped.

She leaped from the couch and dropped to the floor, frantically gathering the shards of ceramic with trembling hands.

Her fingers were cut by the sharp fragments piercing her palms. Blood dripped from her clenched fists, but she didn't stop.

And yet, Dad didn't even move. He had no concern for the woman writhing in pain on the floor. Not a single flicker of sympathy crossed his face.

Instead, he crossed his arms, exasperation seeping through his voice.

"Crying again? All you do is cry. Ever since three months ago, every time I come home, you're wailing.

"When are you going to stop this nonsense? You were the one who went to provoke Denise that day. She couldn't take it, so she pushed you. Yeah, I know you broke your hand and you can't perform surgeries anymore. But there are thousands of doctors out there. You're not that special. So what if you can't be a doctor anymore?"

He took a deep breath and said coldly, "I'm done talking. I'll give you one day—go to Denise's company and clear this up. If you don't, I'll make sure Mary doesn't get into that prestigious elementary school."

Then he stormed out and slammed the door so hard that the walls shook.

As I watched him leave, tears of blood streamed down my ghostly face.