13
The next morning, Mom went to the market
early. She was a regular at the seafood stall.
The vendor greeted her enthusiastically,
showing her the large, fresh shrimp. “Your
daughter will love these.”
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Mom stared blankly. “My daughter was
allergic to seafood.”
The vendor gave her a strange look but
continued serving other customers. Mom
wandered from stall to stall, picking up
carrots then putting them down, picking up
peppers then putting them down. Her
behavior was so odd that a vendor finally
asked, “What are you planning to cook?
Maybe I can make a recommendation.”
I watched her stand there, struggling to
remember, her eyes lost. Then I realized: she
didn’t know what I liked to eat. I’d never had
the privilege of choosing like Chloe, never
been a picky eater like Zach. I’d always eaten
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whatever she made.
The vendor pulled out a small basket. “Fresh
wild mushrooms from Brookhaven, just
arrived. Perfect for stir–fry with pork.”
Brookhaven. Mushrooms. The words pierced
through Mom like a knife. She clutched a
handful of mushrooms and started to cry.
“Ashley. Ashley.” She rarely used my name so
tenderly. But now I was dead. I couldn’t hear
her.
She bought nothing, returning home with an
empty basket. After sitting in silence for a
while, she called Chloe, her voice cold. “You
2
haven’t touched your piano in six months. If
you want it, I’ll have it delivered. If not, I’ll call
someone to take it away.”
Chloe started to cry. “Mom, what are you
doing? Just because I’m married, I’m no
longer your daughter? I can’t have a room in
the house anymore?”
“Your room is still yours,” Mom said flatly.
“I’m going to fix up Ashley’s room.”
Chloe didn’t respond. No one can predict the
future. That unanswered call hadn’t made
Chloe directly responsible for my death, but it
had shifted her position in the family.
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Mom worked quickly. The next day, the piano
room was empty. She went to furniture
stores, trying to find the exact same bed and
wardrobe she’d thrown away, but she
couldn’t. She took my old clothes out of the
storage room, smoothing out each piece,
hanging them in the closet. There weren’t
many. They were all from my school days.
Even if I were alive, I wouldn’t fit in them
anymore. She took the bracelet to a jeweler
to be repaired as best as possible, then wore
it on her wrist.
My photo was placed in the room. Every
morning, the first thing Mom did was go in
and wipe it clean. I didn’t understand. Was it
L
compensation? Or was she trying to ease her
guilt, creating a false image of a loving
mother?
When I was alive, I craved her love so
desperately. Even a little would have been
enough. But it came too late.
I floated around the room, wanting to knock
things off the shelves, tear the new bedsheets
off the bed, scream at her like we used to.
Stop pretending, Mom! Stop faking this love
just to ease your conscience! Do you even
believe it yourself?
But I couldn’t speak. And even if I could, she
wouldn’t hear.
Join the bookshelf
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For the first time, I realized how cruel it was
to exist as a ghost. When would I fade away,
be reborn? Or would I be trapped here
forever, in this house that was never mine,
watching their happy lives?
Soon, I had my answer.
