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.

Denise was Mom's foster sister.

Two years ago, after Grandma fell ill, Mom—soft-hearted as always—took Dad and me to visit her.

From that day forward, Denise latched onto Dad and refused to let go.

She didn't stop at manipulating Mom with Grandma's illness to force her way into our home.

Once she moved in, she began accusing Mom of hitting and abusing her, creating a rift between my parents. They fought constantly.

And just a year ago, she took things further—using her depression as a weapon to steal Dad away entirely.

Even when my heart condition worsened and I was hospitalized, Dad didn't come to see me. Mom would tell me he was busy with work, that he had important things to handle.

But I knew better.

He was with Denise, taking care of her. After all, Denise had depression—she was so fragile, so prone to suicide attempts, that she was considered more delicate than me, his daughter born with congenital heart disease.

That injustice gnawed at me.

So when Mom broke the news that my heart condition had become critical—that without surgery, I would die—I lost control.

I screamed, throwing tantrums, telling her I wouldn't go through with the operation unless Dad came to be with me.

I shouted at her, blaming her for everything. I even said she was the reason I lost Dad too.

Mom, worn down by my outbursts, finally promised to bring Dad back to be by my side for the surgery. What I didn't expect was how she would do it.

She begged. She knelt in front of Denise, pleading, saying she was wrong, begging her to give Dad back to me.

I didn't mean to witness it—I was hiding in the backseat of her car. I had snuck out of the hospital just for fun.

But when I saw Mom there, on her knees, bowing her head to that horrible homewrecker, crying and pleading, I regretted everything in an instant.

Mom hated Denise with every fiber of her being.

She hated Denise for stealing our grandparents' love, for blackmailing them into locking her away, nearly costing her the chance to take her college entrance exams.

She hated Denise for taking Dad from us.

I had known what it meant to feel heartache ever since I was little. But that day, seeing Mom bow before Denise, begging her with such humility—that was the moment I truly understood what real heartache was.

Tears blurred my vision as I struggled to open the car door and stumbled out. I wanted to take Mom away, far from this nightmare.

I wanted to tell her that I didn't need Dad anymore, that I didn't need him to be there for my surgery. We could survive without him.

I hadn't made it more than a few steps when I saw it—Denise, standing on the balcony not far ahead, had already knocked Mom to the ground.

My heart pounded as I watched, helpless. Denise's stiletto heel dug into Mom's face, grinding down with vicious cruelty.

"Nicole," Denise sneered. "You really think your heart-diseased daughter is worthy of Ethan coming back to see her? Let her die! I'm telling you, I'm not just going to steal your parents and your husband, I'll make sure your daughter dies a miserable death too."

Each one of her words was more hateful than the last. "Don't think being a doctor makes you untouchable. You'll always be nothing more than my slave."

Mom snapped. Right then and there, something inside her broke. She struggled to her feet, wild with rage, lunging at Denise.

"Denise, if you dare lay a hand on my daughter, I'll kill you!"

The words tore from Mom's throat as she slapped Denise across the face, hard. They were locked in a vicious fight, Mom clawing at Denise's hair, her screams filled with fury and agony.

Desperation flooded my veins, and I forgot all about Mom's warnings not to run.

I had to help Mom.

But before I could reach them, they both tumbled over the edge of the balcony, rolling as they fell, crashing onto the ground below.

When I saw Mom lying there, blood everywhere, completely still, my heart seized in my chest, and a violent spasm ripped through me. Pain shot through my body, nearly paralyzing me.

But just when everything seemed lost, Dad appeared.

He charged toward them like a wild beast, and for a brief moment, I thought he had come to save Mom. I thought he was there to help her, to pull her back from the brink of death.

But when he reached the bottom of the stairs, he didn't even glance at Mom. Not once.

Instead, he hurried to Denise's side, frantically lifting her into his arms.

"Dee, are you okay? I'll take you to the hospital. I'm taking you right now." he said urgently.

Then, he carried her away, rushing toward the garage, leaving Mom behind—broken and bleeding on the ground.

Pain, grief, and despair clawed at my chest all at once, fierce and unrelenting. Especially when I saw Dad carrying Denise past me.

He didn't even notice me, curled up on the ground, too weak to make a sound, tears streaming down my face as I lay there.

The ache in my chest exploded into something unbearable, a sharp twist of agony that made my whole body seize and convulse.

Through my blurry, tear-filled vision, I could just make out Mom, lying in a pool of her own blood not far away.

I wanted to scream, but the only sound that escaped me was a choking sob, my body shaking uncontrollably with the effort.

When I opened my eyes again, everything had changed.

I wasn't in my body anymore. I was floating, watching from above as Mom sat frozen beside my lifeless body, her face pale, her eyes wide with shock.

The doctor stood next to her, his expression heavy with sorrow.

"Dr. Richie, I'm so sorry," the doctor said softly. "If your hand hadn't been injured, there might have been a chance to save Mary. But... this was her fate."

The words barely left his lips before Mom's cries tore through the room, raw and piercing, as if her very soul was being ripped apart. She clung to my clothes and wept, "Mary, I'm sorry! It's all my fault! I killed you!"

Her sobs echoed in my ears, breaking my heart over and over again. I rushed toward her, wanting to wrap my arms around her and tell her it wasn't true, that I didn't blame her.

"Mom, it's not your fault. I should've known Dad didn't love me. It was my stubbornness that cost me my life. It was my fault, not yours. Please don't cry, Mom. Please."

But my words never reached her. Just like when I was alive, I couldn't comfort her. I couldn't now either.

After Dad left, Mom stumbled toward the kitchen. She picked up a fruit knife with hands that were too steady, too practiced. Without hesitation, she plunged the blade into her thigh, the tip slicing through flesh with a sharp, precise motion.

Blood welled up, dark and vibrant, spilling from the wound and dripping to the floor, one drop at a time.

I watched, horrified, as she stood there, blood trickling down her leg, staining the ground beneath her. My whole body shook with sobs.

This was the thirty-ninth time since my death that she had taken that knife and stabbed herself in the thigh.

Mom fainted from blood loss.

Normally, whenever she passed out, she'd wake up in half an hour, but this time, she was out cold the entire day.

Panic gripped me. I was terrified something had gone horribly wrong. Desperate, I tried using Mom's phone to dial 911 for help, but no matter how hard I tried, my hand passed right through it.

I glanced at Mom's pale, lifeless face, and the pain in my chest surged so violently that, before I knew it, my soul had been drawn to where Dad was. I didn't know how it happened, but suddenly I was there, next to him.

Under the dim, flickering light, Dad was gently helping Denise toward the bed.

"Your headaches seem to be getting worse again," he said gently, "I'll take you to the hospital tomorrow."

Denise stumbled, collapsing into his arms with a fragile, helpless sigh.

"I'll be fine," she murmured. "It's just… thinking about how much my sister hates me, it hurts so much."

"I really don't understand," she continued, "what do I have to do for her to forgive me? Even when we were kids, I let her have everything. Even when she bullied me so badly that I ended up with depression, I never once resented her."

Her sobs grew louder, echoing off the walls, as she buried her face deeper into Dad's chest.

"But she went too far this time," Denise said, her voice breaking. "Ruining my career, my dreams... How could she do that?"

Dad wrapped his arms tightly around her, fury rising in his eyes.

"Don't worry," he said fiercely. "I'll make sure you get justice, no matter what. I've already threatened her with Mary's academic future. She treats Mary like her whole world. She'll cave, for sure."

Thinking of my mother lying pale and lifeless on the cold floor, a surge of intense anger stabbed into my heart.

Justice? Dad wanted to help Denise get justice? What about me? What about Mom? Where was our justice?

My body trembled with uncontrollable fury as I stood there, watching.

Denise wiped away the tears on her cheeks and, in a pitiful voice, said, "Ethan, I know how much you care about me. So, can I ask you a favor? Can you send this information to the hospital? It's evidence of Nicole accepting bribes for surgeries."

Her voice quivered as she continued, "I know it's cruel of me to seek revenge, but I just can't bear the years of bullying from Nicole anymore. If I don't fight back now, who knows what she'll do to me in the future?"

She pulled another document from the drawer—a medical report.

"The doctor says my depression has worsened. If I continue to live under this constant pressure, always feeling persecuted, I might end up committing suicide."

Her voice cracked, and she collapsed into Dad's arms again, sobbing uncontrollably. "Ethan, I don't want to die, but I can't control myself anymore. Please, I'm begging you, let me die once to get my revenge, okay?"

I watched the scene unfold, my eyes widening in disbelief. Mom had only a few things left that mattered to her in this world—Dad, me, and her work as a doctor, saving lives.

Denise had already taken Dad from her, taken me from her. And now, she wanted to strip away the last shred of hope Mom had. What a wicked woman!

The realization crashed into me, and the fury that surged through my soul was like a tidal wave. I couldn't hold it back any longer. I lunged at Denise, wild with rage, clawing at her face, shoving her with all the strength I had left.

"You wicked woman! Stay away from my mom! I won't let you hurt her!" I screamed.

"You evil, wicked woman! How could you be so cruel?"

But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how violently I pushed and scratched, my hands went right through her. All I could do was watch helplessly as Dad, full of concern, held her close, comforting her like she was the victim.

And then, under Denise's manipulative urging, I saw Dad send the photos and videos of Mom accepting bribes to the hospital where she worked.