Seven Years of Silence: A Mother's Last Wish Chapter 1

In the seventh year after being brought back to my biological family, I had already followed my parents' demands, married a man I didn't love, and raised a three-year-old daughter.

The adopted daughter, who was a year older than me, was still acting like a spoiled child in our parents' arms because she was "still young at heart."

The bitter feud between the biological and the adopted daughter had long faded like smoke.

My family should have returned to peace.

So, when I was on the verge of being beaten to death by my husband, I called my family.

"I'm dying. Can you come pick Lily up and take her home, just like you picked me up all those years ago?"

* * *

I knew I was finally going to die, so I didn't dial 911. Instead, I called my family.

My mother answered the phone.

She was in the middle of getting a manicure, her tone laced with impatience. "What is it now?"

I covered the bleeding wound on my neck and told her I was dying. Could they come and take Lily away?

Lily was only three years old. She was sleeping upstairs, completely unaware of the absolute devastation below.

I couldn't stop the bleeding. Beside me lay the shattered remains of a wine bottle, and after finishing his violent rampage, my husband had passed out on the sofa, snoring loudly.

"Harper, are you ever going to stop? You pull this dramatic stunt every other week!"

My brother, Asher, snatched the phone and started screaming at me. "You've been married for four years! Every time you call, you're either crying for a divorce or claiming you're going to be beaten to death. Is your life really that miserable?!"

I fell silent.

I didn't know if I was numb from the pain or if I had just lost too much blood, but I felt incredibly tired.

Looking back, I had actually been tired for years.

I was kidnapped at five years old, forced to work like a slave on a remote, off-the-grid farm. I never saw the light of day, working until my back couldn't stand straight.

At fifteen, I finally came home. Faced with the deeply beloved adopted daughter who had taken my place, I walked on eggshells just to survive in the cracks of my own home, crying silently through countless nights because I was so tired.

At eighteen, I was forced into an arranged marriage with an abusive heir. To avoid being beaten, I humbly played the role of a perfect, submissive wife, swallowing my grievances just to keep him happy.

I was tired to the point that every inch of my skin twitched.

At twenty, I fell into severe clinical depression. My daughter Lily's smile was the only thing keeping me breathing. Every day felt like standing on the edge of a cliff staring into the abyss—wanting to jump, but terrified to take the step.

I was tired to the point of ringing ears and a piercing ache in my heart.

Finally, I was twenty-two, and a piece of a shattered wine bottle had sliced through my carotid artery.

Suddenly, I wasn't tired anymore. Because I was finally going to die.

I answered Asher, "I'm not acting this time. I'm really dying. Can you please come over right now? I'm afraid Lily will be scared."

Actually, over the years, I hadn't "acted" that many times.

I had only mentioned divorce to my family three times. When they got annoyed, I never dared to bring it up again.

I had only told my family I was hurt four times. When they didn't believe me, I never mentioned it again.

From the time I was brought home until now—seven years, seven cries for help.

That wasn't considered a lot, was it?

"Then go die. We'll pick Lily up when you're dead!"