If You Only Had 72 Hours to Live

The first thing I saw when I woke up was the water-stained ceiling.

The air was thick with the sterile scent of disinfectant.

I glanced at the clock on the wall.

Six hours until I died.

"Clara? Clara, honey, can you hear me?"

A voice, both familiar and distant, pulled me back from the darkness.

I struggled to turn my head, my gaze falling on a face I never thought I'd see again.

It was my mom.

She looked travel-worn, her eyes red-rimmed as she clutched my icy hand.

My parents divorced when I was young. Mom was a brilliant scientist, and a top-secret project had taken her away—for what felt like an eternity.

She wanted to take me with her.

But on the day she was supposed to leave, my dad and brother clung to me, crying and begging me not to go, insisting our family couldn't survive without me.

My heart broke for them, so I chose to stay.

From that day on, the thought of my mom was a hollow ache in my chest—a constant, painful longing.

She was the only person in the world who had ever truly loved me.

I knew I shouldn't have pulled her away from such a critical phase of her work, but I had no one else left.

"Damn it, Clara! How could you let this happen?"

Mom's voice trembled, raw with a rage that felt hot enough to scald. "That bastard Zane, and your clueless father and brother! How could they let this happen to you?"

"Weren't you two always posting your perfect life on Instagram? And now the doctor is telling me you're dying? What the hell is going on?"

I blinked weakly, a wave of profound sadness washing over me. She was right. I stayed for them, and they led me straight to hell.

My throat was too raw to make a sound. With all the strength I could muster, I flicked my eyes toward the nightstand.

Mom understood immediately. She opened my purse and, after a moment of searching, pulled out the legal documents.

Her face turned to stone as she scanned the pages. Carefully, she put them away, the sorrow in her eyes a storm threatening to break.

Three hours left.

I'd refused all life-saving measures.

Mom held up my phone. A new message from Hailey lit up the screen.

In the photo, Hailey was snuggled into Zane's arms while my daughter, my dad, and my brother stood beside them.

It was a professional family portrait, and they were all beaming.

Below the photo was a string of texts:

"Give it up, Clara. Everything you had is mine now."

"Your publishing rights, your studio, your husband, your daughter. Even your family."

"I even have your pathology report. LOL. Now you can die in peace! :)"

Reading the texts, Mom's entire body began to tremble with fury.

She bit her lip, trying to hold back tears, her grip on my hand tightening as if to pour her own life force into me.

I let out a dry, bitter laugh that died in my throat.

I had only two regrets in my life: not leaving with my mom, and introducing Hailey to my family.

I first met Hailey at a young adult writers' conference. She'd just been called out for plagiarism, and she was a pariah.

As she passed our table, I heard someone mutter, "There she is. The copycat."

Another writer snickered. "I can't believe she even showed her face."

Later, I saw a few established authors corner her by the coffee station. "So, which one of us are you planning to rip off for your next ‘masterpiece’?" one of them sneered.

I was already getting some buzz for my debut novel, so when I stepped in, people listened. "That's enough," I said, my voice sharper than I intended.

"Whatever mistakes she made, it doesn't give you the right to act like a pack of vultures."

I bought her a coffee afterward, and she broke down, telling me she'd only done it because her family was broke and she was desperate for the prize money.

I felt for her. I started helping her out with money, and after reading some of her original work, I saw a flicker of talent.

It wasn't genius, but it wasn't worthless. I gave her notes, introduced her to my agent.

After that, I was her only friend.

I introduced her to my family. I invited her over for dinner.

She was always so timid and sweet, constantly whispering, "Thank you, Clara."

I felt so proud whenever someone complimented her on how far she'd come.

Then, slowly, things started to feel… off.

My friends began to drift away from me, suddenly treating Hailey like their new best friend.

The boys who'd had crushes on me grew cold, fawning all over Hailey instead.

Even my dad and brother started inviting her over more and more, eventually giving her her own room in our house.

And I was stupid enough to think it was a good thing.

I thought Hailey was finally becoming part of my life, that we could be real sisters.

Until the day I overheard her on the phone, a venomous cackle in her voice:

"You have no idea," she cackled, "that idiot Clara actually thinks I'm grateful."

"She lectures me about 'finding my own voice,' as if her little stories are some kind of high art."

"Just you wait. I'm not just going to be a better writer than her. I'm going to take her agent, her publisher, her fans—everything. I'm going to take her life and wear it better than she ever did."

I stood frozen outside her door, a chill running down my spine.

In that moment, I understood. The friendship I had so carefully built, the kindness I had taken such pride in—it was all just a joke to her.

I thought I could drive Hailey away.

I thought I could make my family and Zane see her for who she truly was.

But I was too naive.

I had underestimated Hailey's cunning. I was completely blind to how deep my own family—Zane, my father, my brother, and even my daughter, Olivia—had fallen under her spell.

I lost. Utterly and completely.

Nine minutes until I died.

My consciousness was fading, my vision blurring at the edges.

But I could still see the screen of my own phone in Mom's hand. New texts from Dad were lighting it up. He clearly had no idea she was here, or that I was dying.

[Clara, we painted your old room pink. It's Hailey's favorite color!]

[Also, Hailey wants to switch to a more comfortable keyboard for typing, so we're giving her yours. It's not like you use it anymore, right?]

Even on my deathbed, all my father and brother cared about was making Hailey happy.

To them, I wasn't a daughter or a sister anymore.

Just an obstacle to Hailey's happiness, a resource to be stripped bare for her benefit.

Only then did I fully understand how foolish I had been.

I had given up the one person in the world who truly loved me, all for a family that was rotten to the core.

I could vaguely hear my mom's voice in my ear, screaming my name. She was always so strong, but now she was sobbing like a child.

It was no use. The words were just noise. I couldn't make them out.

These last few years… I've been so, so tired.

But holding Mom's hand in my final moments… at least I had this.

Finally… I can rest…

January 26.

Death certificate issued: Bainbridge Island Clinic.

Name: Clara Vance.

Age: 29.

Vance. Not Clara Pierce.

This time, I was finally just my mother's daughter.

I wrote worlds full of happy endings for my characters, a kindness life never afforded me.

But in the end, like them, I found my freedom.