Ghost of a Broken Home

On April Fool’s Day, my CEO husband cut out my heart to save his childhood sweetheart's son. After the surgery, he tossed me into a cold rental apartment, where I died in agony.

Three days after my death, my five-year-old daughter played in the room as usual.

Walking by the sofa, she wrinkled her little nose and mumbled, "Mommy, there's a weird smell in here."

She touched my face and murmured, "Mommy, are you pretending to be Snow White? Why are you so pale?"

She shook my arm harder and raised her voice, "Mommy, it's my birthday today—get up and blow out the candles!"

Confused, she picked up the phone and called her father.

“Daddy, did I make Mommy mad? I lit the candles, but no matter how much I call her, she won’t wake up.”

On the other end of the call, Patrick Hart’s voice was cold and impatient. “What could possibly be wrong with her? She’s just pretending to be asleep for sympathy. It’s Johnny’s birthday, I’m busy. Don’t bother me! Tell your melodramatic mother to stop playing her little tricks. I don't have time to humor her."

My daughter removed the candle from her bun, pinched off a piece of the bun, and fed it to me.

"Mommy, I made a secret wish… I really wish you could hold me again, just like before."

I lay motionless on the tattered sofa.

My daughter was already used to this sight. She tiptoed closer, placed most of the bun slice beside my head, and nibbled on her own portion.

After just a few bites, the bun was gone, but her stomach was still growling. She glanced around the room, searching for anything to fill her belly, but there was nothing left.

With no other choice, she stood on tiptoe, trembling as she twisted the faucet open, filling a cup with water and gulping it down.

Floating in midair, I watched this scene unfold, my heart aching as if pierced by countless needles.

Was she really my little girl, the one who used to tear up and throw a tantrum whenever she couldn't have her strawberry cake? It had only been three days. How had she changed from a spoiled child to someone so sensible?

She looked up and spotted the old teddy bear by the trash can. Wedged between its worn-out paws was a family photo.

In the picture, Patrick held my daughter and me in his strong arms, his gaze full of warmth and love. I was beaming with happiness, and my daughter’s bright smile revealed her tiny milk teeth.

That day had been a warm, sunny weekend. Patrick had tiptoed into the bedroom with our daughter, whispering, “Nina, Mommy is sleeping in like a piggy again! Let’s wake her up together, okay?”

At his words, my daughter’s eyes twinkled like two little stars, and she nodded excitedly. “Okay, Daddy!”

After that, Patrick had pulled out a music box and gently placed it by my pillow. Then, he had picked up the teddy bear and brushed its fluffy paws against my cheek.

I had slowly woken up to the crisp melody of the music box.

Patrick had immediately pulled our daughter into his arms, grinning. “Look! Mommy is finally awake. Shouldn’t she give us a big hug as a reward?”

I had sighed helplessly, my eyes filled with affection as I embraced them both tightly.

Patrick had let out a contented sigh and said, “With you here, our home is complete.”

At that moment, my daughter stared at the music box in the photo, as if she had just remembered something. She put down the picture and ran to the sofa, her eyes sparkling with hope.

“Mommy, you’re being lazy again! I’m going back to our old home to get the music box. Then, I can wake you up!”

Seeing her determined to leave, I instinctively reached out for an umbrella, wanting to remind her that it was raining outside.

Alas, my hand passed right through her body!

In that instant, I suddenly remembered—I was dead. I could never protect her like before.