To Bring Home My Faked-Death Sister, I Died for Real Chapter 1

After my sister, the golden child of our family, died in an accident, my parents’ grief was a raw, open wound.

But I had stumbled upon her anonymous online journal, and I knew the truth: she had faked her own death.

I was about to show my parents, to end their suffering, when I overheard my mother’s choked whisper to my father.

“The one who should be dead is still here, while the one with a future is gone.”

Her voice cracked. “We poured everything into getting her a master’s degree, just waiting for her to help pay for her sister’s goddamn medical bills. What did I do to deserve a vampire for a daughter?”

I froze outside their door. The vampire, the one who should be dead—that was me.

I was born with cerebral palsy. The doctors told them to let me go. But they refused, my mom and dad, and they clawed their way through hell to raise me. My clumsy, uncoordinated limbs made me a target for bullies at school, and the taunts eventually festered into a crippling anxiety disorder.

My medical bills were a black hole that swallowed every dollar they ever earned. We never had a single nice day.

I was the anchor dragging this family to the bottom.

Staring at their weary backs through the crack in the door, I made a silent promise.

You’re right, Mom. The one who should be dead is me.

I’ll be good. I’ll go.

…

Before the end, I looked at my sister’s journal one last time. She had posted an update.

Faking my death feels like being reborn. No more digging through the trash for toilet paper just to save a few pennies for my sister’s treatments.

So, it was because of me. Of course, it was.

A single tear splattered onto the screen, blurring the words into an indistinct smear. I felt a wave of guilt so profound it almost drowned me, but beneath it, there was a strange, sharp sense of relief.

She was free.

For me, she had lived a life of quiet misery. She never wore new clothes, her sleeves always inches above her wrists, her pants too short. She was a walking collection of hand-me-downs—men’s shirts, women’s blouses, clothes meant for children and the elderly, none of them truly hers. Yet, she would always smile and plead with Mom.

“It’s Christmas, can we please get Lily a new coat?”

She never asked for a thing for herself. She was an angel of self-sacrifice.

On the rare occasions we had meat, she would mimic our parents, carefully picking every lean piece from her plate and placing it in my bowl.

She was so thin, a wisp of a girl, yet she carried me on her back all the way to school. Not for a day, not for a week. But for twelve years, through every scorching summer and bitter winter.

When other kids called me a cripple, my gentle, quiet sister would transform into a lioness, fighting them with a ferocity that was terrifying to watch.

From the day I was diagnosed, the scales of our parents’ love tipped completely in my favor. But Chloe never fought for their attention. She loved me just as much as they did, and she poured everything else she had into her studies.

“I’ll get into a great university, Lily,” she’d promise, her eyes shining with determination. “I’m going to make life good for all of us.”

To everyone, Chloe was our parents’ pride. She was the single, flickering flame of hope in our broken home.

My hand trembled as I typed out a private message to her.

“Chloe, thank you for loving me all these years.”

“I’m so sorry you were stuck with a sister like me.”

“I’m tired. I’m going to a place where I can finally rest.”

“Come home, Chloe. Please.”

My vision swam with tears, making the touchscreen unresponsive. I wiped it with my sleeve, my fingers clumsy, and closed the app.

In my drawer was a bottle of sleeping pills, collected one by one over six long months. Finally, a lethal dose.

Just before I swallowed them, I decided to leave two sentences for my parents. A final apology.

“Mom, Dad, I’m sorry my life dragged you all into the mud.”

“I can’t hold on anymore. I have to let go. Please, don’t cry.”

I fought to keep my tears from staining the paper. There were a million things I wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come.

This was enough.

I placed the note on my nightstand, where they couldn’t miss it. Then, without a second’s hesitation, I swallowed the entire bottle of pills.

I pulled the covers over myself, found a comfortable position, and closed my eyes.

Goodbye, Mom. Dad. Chloe. Goodbye forever.

That night, my soul drifted through our silent apartment. The quiet was finally broken by the sound of the front door opening.

“Lily? Are you hungry?” Mom’s voice was heavy with exhaustion. Her eyes were red and swollen, but she forced a cheerful tone. “I bought some chicken wings. I’ll make them just how you like.”