Chapter 1

The day I died was my mom's birthday.

She had, for once, saved me a really big piece of cake.

I floated in front of that cake, ghostly and hungry, taking a longing sniff.

But the next second, the cake was handed to my sister instead.

"Lily, go ahead and eat. Your sister, that ungrateful brat, clearly doesn't deserve any!"

Then she turned to Dad, who was recording on his phone.

"Did you get all that? When that little brat comes back, make sure she watches this. Let's see if she dares to say we're playing favorites again!"

"Of all the things she could've done, she had to run away from home!"

"We spoiled her rotten! If she's got the guts, she should never come back!"

Mom slammed her hand on the table while cursing me out, that cold sneer on her face.

She didn't notice the panic written all over my sister's face as she held the cake.

She didn't notice her tangled hair either.

And she definitely didn't notice the dark stains of blood on her sleeve.

That blood was mine.

When Mom was yelling at me in the community playground, a bunch of elderly neighbors had gathered to watch the drama.

One old lady pointed at my mom and started lecturing the toddler in her arms.

"Sweetie, you need to be a good girl. Don't be like that lady's kid, hiding somewhere and refusing to come home."

The little kid in her arms was sucking on her fingers, her voice muffled.

"Hungry tummy."

Her grandma replied, "Exactly, that's why this lady is trying to call her daughter home—"

"Bullshit!"

"Me, calling her home? That little brat—I hope she drops dead out there!"

Mom whipped around and snapped at the old lady.

The old lady covered her grandchild's ears and said awkwardly, "Watch your language, will you? There are children here."

"With a mom like you, no wonder your daughter doesn't want to come home!"

I crouched on the rusty swing, which swayed gently in the wind, creaking softly.

Mom's face turned bright red.

"Mind your own damn business, you old hag!"

The old lady took half a step back after being yelled at.

But looking at the innocent toddler in her arms and the crowd of onlookers, she couldn't help but argue back.

"Wh-what are you getting so defensive about!"

"Last time I saw you all at the grocery store, you were carrying your younger daughter while the older one trailed behind, dragging shopping bags that were almost as tall as her!"

"Tell me, folks—they're both your kids! What kind of mother does that!"

The moment she said that, whispers erupted through the crowd.

"Oh wow, now that you mention it, I think I've seen that too."

"That girl was so skinny and pale, head down, barely able to walk straight."

I crouched on the swing with my head down, picking at my fingernails.

From struggling before I died, my nails had peeled back one by one.

Now that I was a ghost, the wounds were still the same—raw flesh tinged with a dark purple.

At least they didn't hurt anymore.

Mom was all about appearances. Hearing those words, her face turned even redder, and her voice got shriller.

"So what if I made her carry a few things? Would it kill her to help out around the house?"

"That bag was full of snacks she wanted to eat anyway! She was carrying her own stuff—what's the problem?!"

That wasn't true.

I held my breath and kicked the swing hard.

That day, the shopping bags had been so heavy they turned my fingers purple.

They were stuffed with my sister's favorite snacks, the soda Mom loved, and the cigarettes Dad smoked.

I stumbled along behind Mom, sweat dripping into my eyes, making them dry and sting.

My sister was being carried in Mom's arms, holding an ice cream cone, her face smeared with it.

She turned her head, a big smile on her face. "Want some, Emma?"

I licked my lips, desperate for a taste.

Mom immediately turned my sister's face back around.

"Ignore her. She deserves it. That's what she gets for failing her test and talking back."

When we got home, they sat on the couch watching cartoons.

I was locked out on the balcony to "reflect" and redo my test papers.

My stomach cramped with hunger.

In the living room, Mom fed my sister, smiling so gently.

That smile—I had never once been on the receiving end of it.

A thought began to grow inside me like a vine, wild and consuming.

I stopped picking at my bloody fingernails and looked up at Mom.

She was arguing back and forth with the neighbors, her pretty eyes blazing like a fire that would never go out.

If Mom found out I was dead, would she regret it?

Would she cry for me?

Would she—just once—hold me the way she held my sister?

I jumped off the swing and floated over to her side, reaching out to touch her.

But my fingertip passed right through her arm, just as I expected.

I pouted, then carefully slid my finger into Mom's loosely curled palm.

It almost looked like we were holding hands. I couldn't help but smile a little.

The next second, Mom flung her hand away.

Of course, she couldn't actually shake off my ghostly finger—it was just a gesture she made while arguing.

"She's my daughter! I'll discipline her however I want!"

"If she wants to die out there, then let her! At least I'll finally have some peace and quiet!"

My finger stayed suspended in midair, still curled in that pretend hand-holding pose.

I stared at my transparent finger for a long time, then slowly pulled it back.