Ghost of a Broken Home
On April Fool’s Day, my CEO husband cut out my heart to save his childhood sweetheart's son. After the surgery, he tossed me into a cold rental apartment, where I died in agony.
Three days after my death, my five-year-old daughter played in the room as usual.
Walking by the sofa, she wrinkled her little nose and mumbled, "Mommy, there's a weird smell in here."
She touched my face and murmured, "Mommy, are you pretending to be Snow White? Why are you so pale?"
She shook my arm harder and raised her voice, "Mommy, it's my birthday today—get up and blow out the candles!"
Confused, she picked up the phone and called her father.
“Daddy, did I make Mommy mad? I lit the candles, but no matter how much I call her, she won’t wake up.”
On the other end of the call, Patrick Hart’s voice was cold and impatient. “What could possibly be wrong with her? She’s just pretending to be asleep for sympathy. It’s Johnny’s birthday, I’m busy. Don’t bother me! Tell your melodramatic mother to stop playing her little tricks. I don't have time to humor her."
My daughter removed the candle from her bun, pinched off a piece of the bun, and fed it to me.
"Mommy, I made a secret wish… I really wish you could hold me again, just like before."