When my mother told me to die on my little brother’s birthday, I never imagined she would spend the rest of her life wishing she could take those words back.
Chapter 2
At first, I thought I was dreaming. I called my own name and waved my hands in front of the boy’s face, but he didn’t move. When I tried touching his shoulder, my fingers passed straight through him.
I stumbled backward, terrified. My arm no longer hurt, and I wasn’t cold anymore. But I knew something terrible had happened.
I was dead.
Hours later, the front door opened, and Noah’s excited voice echoed through the house. “Liam! We’re home! Dad bought cake!”
I ran toward him before remembering that nobody could see me.
Dad came inside carrying a big white bakery box. Mom followed with Noah’s backpack and a bag of party decorations. Dad stopped when he noticed the stains on the hallway floor.
“What happened here?” he asked.
Mom sighed and shook her head. “Liam threw another fit this morning. He didn’t want me taking Noah to school, so he pretended to be sick.”
Dad looked disappointed. “That boy needs to understand he isn’t the only person in this family.”
I stood beside him, trying to explain. “Dad, I wasn’t pretending. I tried to clean it up.”
He walked right through me.
Noah hurried to my bedroom and knocked gently. “Liam, we got strawberry cake. Come have some with me.”
I stood beside him, wishing I could open the door. He waited patiently, pressing his ear against the wood. When nobody answered, he looked toward Mom.
“Maybe he’s sleeping,” he suggested.
“He’s sulking, sweetheart,” Mom replied. “Let him be.”
They gathered around the kitchen table. Dad lit five candles, and Mom began singing happy birthday. I sat in my usual chair, watching Noah’s face glow in the candlelight.
He closed his eyes before blowing out the candles. Dad laughed and asked what he’d wished for, but Noah refused to say. I already suspected the answer.
When Mom cut the cake, Noah asked for the biggest slice. He carried it carefully to my bedroom, holding the plate with both hands.
“I saved this one for you,” he whispered through the door. “It’s got an extra strawberry.”
I stood beside him, crying tears nobody could see. I wanted to tell him that I loved him. I wanted him to know I hadn’t forgotten his birthday.
After a while, Dad came down the hallway. He took the untouched plate from Noah and carried it back to the kitchen.
“If Liam doesn’t want cake, he doesn’t have to eat it,” he said angrily.
He dropped the slice into the trash.
That evening, Mom gave Noah a bath in the same bathroom where my body remained hidden behind the shower curtain. I watched from the doorway as she washed his hair. Every time she reached toward the curtain, I felt afraid.
“Mommy,” Noah asked, “why doesn’t Liam like me anymore?”
Mom stopped rinsing his hair. “Oh, honey. Your brother loves you. Sometimes he’s just upset because we have to spend time with someone else.”
“But he’s sick,” Noah said. “My teacher says we should help people when they’re sick.”
Mom lowered her head. For a moment, she looked exactly like the woman who used to sit beside my hospital bed.
“I know, sweetheart,” she whispered. “I know.”
Later that night, she stood outside my bedroom door. Her voice was softer than it had been all day.
“Liam, I’m sorry I yelled this morning. I was tired and worried about Noah’s first day. There’s some cake left on the table, honey. Please come eat something.”
She waited several seconds, but she never opened the door.
In their bedroom, Dad told Mom that perhaps I’d been lonely. He worried about how little time I spent around other children and suggested hiring a home tutor. Mom reminded him how much money they still owed the hospital.
“I’ll pick up delivery shifts after work,” Dad replied. “The kid deserves something besides doctors and medicine.”
I followed them into their room. When Dad removed his shirt, I saw how swollen his shoulder had become from lifting boxes at work. Mom helped him apply a pain patch, and he winced without complaining.
I climbed onto their bed and lay between them as I had when I was little. I wished I could tell Dad he didn’t need to work another job for me. I wished Mom could hear that I had already forgiven her.
The following morning, Mom found the untouched cake.
Her expression hardened. She marched toward my bedroom and knocked sharply.
“Liam Hayes, this has gone far enough. I apologized last night. What more do you want?”
She opened the door.
The room was empty.
Dad searched the kitchen and laundry room. Mom checked the closets, growing more frightened with every passing minute. Then Noah appeared at the end of the hallway.
“Mommy,” he said quietly, “I think Liam’s still in the bathtub.”
He led them into the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain.
Mom’s relieved expression disappeared. She stared at the dark water, then at the small, motionless figure beneath it.
Her scream made Dad come running.
He lifted my body from the tub and laid me on the bathroom floor. He began CPR while Mom called 911, her hands shaking so badly she dropped her phone.
When she picked it up, she saw my name beside a call from the previous afternoon.
4:12 p.m.
I watched her remember my weak voice. I watched her realize that I’d tried to tell her I was hurt.
The paramedics arrived, but there was nothing they could do. One of them knelt beside Dad and gently explained that I’d been gone for several hours.
Mom fell to the floor beside me.
“No,” she whispered. “He called me. My baby called me.”
She held my cold hand against her cheek and begged me to wake up. Dad wrapped his arms around her, crying so hard he could barely speak.
I stood beside them, trying desperately to make them understand that I wasn’t hurting anymore.
But for the first time in my life, my parents couldn’t save me.
