On the day a thug threw acid on my face, my mom was at my cousin’s coming–of–age ceremony.
Ironically, it was also my birthday.
Dying, I sent my mom a desperate voice message for help. She shot back a text: [Stop playing these games for attention. You don’t fool me.]
That same night, Mom got called into work to handle a case involving a woman’s body.
The body was beyond recognition, and her limbs were mutilated. For three straight days and nights, Mom pieced together that the victim had suffered unspeakable abuse and died in utter despair.
She cursed the killer’s cruelty.
What she didn’t realize was that the dead woman was me, the daughter she hated.
They found my body three days later in a trash pile at the market.
It reeked so bad that a stray dog sniffing around for food started barking like crazy.
A passing patrol officer, alerted by the noise, discovered the disfigured
corpse.
Quickly, the local police formed a special task force led by my mother, Jennifer Cooper.
When my mom arrived at the crime scene, she looked upset. Her team, aware she had taken a personal day, murmured apologies, “Captain Cooper, we know you were off for your daughter’s coming–of–age. But this case is big, and you’re the best we’ve got.”
Mom’s expression softened slightly, but she didn’t clarify that she had actually been at her niece Kelly Butler’s ceremony, not her daughter’s. She treated Kelly as her own.
Despite her extensive experience, Mom appeared pale and gravely serious at the scene.
“Looks like she went through hell before she died,” Mom muttered, examining the body’s wounds.
Her face twisted in anger as she spat out, “Asshole. So damn cruel.” There I was, silently watching over my own corpse. Even as a spirit, the memories of my final torment brought pain and fear.
Right then, a forensic expert walked over, a grim look on his face as he shared the latest findings with Mom. “She bled out from her liver. And…” he hesitated, “Her fingerprints were destroyed. Identifying her is gonna be tough.”
Mom paused, her mind racing back to a similar case from a few months ago.
“There was a case like this out of state recently. Same M.O.,” she directed one of her team, “Charlie, dig into that.”
Standing there as a spirit, watching my mom work so intently, I couldn’t help but think, “Mom has always been the person I looked up to, all my life.”
The detectives hadn’t found much since this wasn’t the primary scene. Eventually, about a thousand feet from the landfill, they stumbled upon a cake smashed on the ground, its frosting spoiled.
“Probably the victim’s,” one of the cops guessed.
Mom bit her lip, pulled out her phone, hesitated, but finally made the call. All she got was a busy signal.
She hung up quickly, her face clouding over as she muttered, “Where the hell is Yasmin messing around now? Didn’t even show up for Kelly’s ceremony. She’s becoming ruder by the day, completely ignoring me.”
Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with sadness.
I realized then, “Mom actually forgot that Kelly’s ceremony was on my birthday.”
2/3
On that birthday, Mom had left with Kelly right in front of me, not
bothering to say a word.
even
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