Her fifth daughter died, so she deleted his bloodline. novel Chapter 75

Chapter 6

couldn’t stop them. Dad grabbed the photos, and Mom and Sam crowded around to see.

I moved closer, dreading what they’d see. The photos showed every bruise on my body. some the size of quarters, others stretching across my ribs and back.

In addition to the marks from coat hangers, charging cables, and broom handles, there were cigarette burns, puncture wounds, and knife cuts.

Dad’s breath came faster and faster as he stared at the damage. Mom shoved the photos away, her voice distant and confused. “I didn’t do this. These aren’t from me. Who- who would do this to her?”

Sam’s eyes were bloodshot, raw with rage. “Who the hell did this? I’ll kill them!”

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’d jumped so they could move on, not dig deeper into my life. I pressed myself into the corner, my voice barely a whisper. “Please don’t look into this. Just forget about me and be happy.”

After that night, they became obsessed with finding out what had happened to me. Mom sank back into the worst depths of her depression.

She clutched my photo to her chest and locked herself in her bedroom, crying for hours. The same two words on repeat: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

It reminded me of when I was a baby-how she’d hurt me and then slump beside the crib, begging my forgiveness. Now she couldn’t bring herself to leave the room.

Every corner of the apartment held memories of me-the kitchen where I’d made breakfast, the living room I’d cleaned, the bathroom where I’d scrubbed the floors. All those years, and I’d only been six.

Most six-year-olds are still learning to tie their shoes, still climbing into their parents’ laps for comfort. I’d learned to read her moods before I could even walk, learned to make myself invisible.

I taught myself not to cry in front of her, not to ask for snacks or ask to watch TV, or reach for toys. From the moment I could craw, I understood-stay out of her way or

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she’d make me regret it.

As I got older, I took on the chores. I’d move through the apartment each day without a sound, cleaning everything I could reach.

Sometimes Mom would say things that made Dad wince, but I was too young to catch the edge in her voice. I thought she was being nice, that she was proud of me. It made me so happy I could barely stand it.

Mom stopped eating, stopped drinking. It was worse than after I was born-in less than a week, she looked like a ghost of herself.

One night Dad came home exhausted and found the apartment empty. No sign of Mom

anywhere.

He tore through every room, calling her name with rising panic. He found her in the

bathtub.

She was lying in water that had turned dark red, my photo clutched against her chest. Dad didn’t let himself feel anything yet. He just got her to the hospital, Sam running

alongside us.

By the time Mom was stable enough to talk, Dad and Sam looked hollowed out from days without sleep. Mom’s eyes were dry, empty.

Her

eyes stared at nothing, her voice flat and lifeless. “Just let me die. I need to see Lily.

I need to tell her I’m sorry.”

The slap echoed through the room. Dad’s palm connected with her cheek, snapping her head to the side. “You want to make it up to her? Then help us find out who did this!”

“You don’t get to take the easy way out! Stop trying to kill yourself and help us get her

justice!”

Dad’s chest rose and fell, his breathing ragged. Lily was dead, his wife was trying to follow, and he’d let it all happen.

Dad’s hair had gone gray practically overnigh. I tried to wrap my arms around him from behind, even knowing he couldn’t feel it “Please stop, Dad. I’m not in pain

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anymore.”

“I’m so sorry. I thought dying would make things better, not worse.”

Dad went very still. Then he tilted his head, almost like he could feel me there, and pressed it against where mine would be.

His voice came out quiet, almost like a prayer. “Hang on a little longer, sweetheart. I

failed you when you were alive. Let me do this one thing for you now.”

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