I died the morning my sister walked down the aisle.
White satin, cathedral veil, and—of course—my boyfriend waiting at the altar.
Mom spam‑called my cell until voicemail got sick of her. When I didn’t pick up, she hissed to whoever was standing closest, “Ungrateful little brat.”
Zach blew up my iMessage:
You’re still hung up on a two‑year‑old breakup?
Quit acting like a child and get your ass here.
Dad, the human iceberg, told him: “Text her again—if she stays away, she’s no daughter of mine.”
None of them actually wanted me. They just wanted their picture‑perfect wedding photos, no empty seat where the maid of honor should’ve been.
Too bad I was already a corpse.
I figured out early that I was the odd sock in the Harper drawer.
Mom came home from a Denver sales trip with two brand‑new Hot Wheels sets—handed one to Zach, one to Jenna, turned on her heels.
I tugged her blazer, squeaking, “Mom, what about me?”
She frowned like I’d handed her a live roach. “Sweetie, those things aren’t cheap. Maybe next time.”
I was five, but I could already smell disappointment.
Fast‑forward. Hilton Lakeside Ballroom, Jenna’s wedding day. Mom finished schmoozing the relatives, ducked behind a ficus, and hit redial like a broken record. Straight to voicemail. On the third try my phone hard‑blocked her.
She stared at the screen, breath hitching. “Tessa, I’m your mother!”
Zach slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Mom, c’mon. Tess has always been like this. Not worth the blood pressure spike.”
And there it was—Mom’s favorite punching bag, served up by her golden boy.
“Out of my three kids, I nearly bled out giving birth to her. The doctors said she stole her twin brother’s nutrients just to survive—”
Heard it a thousand times. Usually ended with me grounded while the happy quartet grabbed ice cream.
“Relax, Mom. I’ll drag her here if I have to.”
Zach fired off another blast of texts.
Sixty minutes. Show. Up.
You know Mom’s heart sucks, right?
He’s just a guy, Tess. Jenna’s still your sister.
Then even he ran out of fake outrage and pocketed his phone.
Because let’s be real—Jenna was his awesome sister, Mom and Dad’s perfect daughter.
Me? Just a technicality.
I floated upstairs—perks of being dead—and found Jenna in the bridal suite.
Makeup artist dabbing away a tear track, Dad kneeling beside her chair.
“Dad, will Tessa really skip my wedding? She’s my baby sister. I just… I need her blessing.”
Mr. Iceberg melted long enough to squeeze her hand. “No way, sweetheart. Zach’s on it. You won’t regret a thing today.”
Out in the hall he cornered Zach. “Tell Tessa if she doesn’t show, she’s out of this family for good.”
“She’s ghosting all of us, Dad. Even Mom’s calls.”
Zach’s jaw flexed. “Knew it. She never had a conscience. Promised she’d come just to mess up Jenna’s big day.”
Today was Jenna’s big day—mermaid‑cut Vera Wang, ten‑piece string quartet, and Finn Sawyer waiting like a damn magazine ad.
Two years ago I brought Finn home for Thanksgiving; Jenna fell in love before the turkey hit the table.
I remember her eyes lighting up, taking me for a late‑night Starbucks walk, linking arms.
“I’m crazy about guys like Finn, Tess. You’re amazing—you’ll find someone better. Let me have him, okay?”
I said no.
A week later Finn dumped me. I begged for a reason; he got sick of the questions and shook me off. I hit the dorm pavement, palms shredded, pride worse.
He looked at me like gum on his shoe.
“Still pretending? Your own family told me everything.”
One random Saturday, Mom dragged me on a grocery run. Behind the produce aisle, Zach fed Finn the truth about me:
Thief. Bully. Promiscuous mess. Secret abortion in sophomore year.
He finished with a martyr sigh. “She’s my sister, man, but I can’t watch you destroy your future.”
Sitting on the asphalt, palms bleeding, I listened as Finn recited that garbage back at me.
I laughed.
He frowned. “You gonna deny it?”
I shook my head. “Every word’s gospel, apparently.”
Finn never loved me that much to begin with—why question blood relatives?
My beloved family never cared while I was breathing.
Why would they notice I’m gone?
Finn Sawyer shows up looking like a GQ cover—tailored charcoal suit, hair shellacked into Wall Street perfection. He plants a showy kiss on Jenna’s cheek and whispers, “Tess still MIA?”
Jenna’s lashes shimmer with staged tears. She nods.
“Forget her,” Finn snaps, voice dropping to a growl. “Trash like that would just stink up the ceremony. Baby, you’re the bride—save your tears for people who matter.”
She loops her arms around his neck, gazes up like a Hallmark angel. “She’s still my sister, Finn.”
She sounds sincere—as sincere as she did three years ago when she blew up my college graduation.
Back then the dean wanted a cute photo‑op: best‑in‑class student and her proud parents onstage. I rehearsed that ask a hundred times before calling home. Mom said sure.
Day of the ceremony she rang at dawn: “Jenna’s sick. Can’t leave her alone.”
FaceTime popped up—Jenna pale, blanket‑wrapped, doing her soft‑voiced martyr routine. “So sorry, Tessie. You’re tough, you’ve got this. Break a leg! Happy graduation!”
Yeah. Happy.
I spent the morning apologizing to my advisor, the dean, the camera crew who had to rearrange the program. I walked past a hot mic and caught a cameraman bitching, “Whole schedule’s blown because Miss Perfect can’t get her family to show. Some valedictorian.”
On my way out I checked Insta—Jenna had already posted a cutesy pic: “Little head‑cold but Mom and Dad tucked me in with soup and love 💕 #blessed.”
Shot in her own bedroom. No doctor visit. So tragic.
Inside the Oakmont Country Club ballroom, a baby‑grand pumps out some sappy John Legend cover. Jenna glides down the aisle in a mermaid Vera Wang, lugging a bucket‑sized bouquet of white roses toward Finn.
Mom and Dad give their syrupy toast, then it’s Zach’s turn. He grabs the mic and shadow‑boxes at Finn. “I got one big sister—total family treasure. Screw her over and we all come for your kneecaps, dude.”
Finn, eyes glued to Jenna like she’s the only oxygen in the room, murmurs, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Cue thunderous applause. Cue Instagram‑ready smiles.
I’m perched on a spray of hydrangeas, ghost‑light cold, just staring. I should hurt—but maybe I ran out of pain the night I died.
At table nine, two aunts whisper:
“Didn’t the Harpers have three kids?”
“Yeah, but the middle girl—Tessa?—total head‑case. Brains for days, zero morals.”
Thanks, Mom and Dad, for the stellar PR.
Not everyone despised me once. Aunt Linda used to be decent. One Christmas she gave me a plush dolphin—mine alone, not a matching set. Zach demanded a turn, I refused, so he shredded it with scissors.
Aunt Linda walked back in for her forgotten scarf, found flipper confetti all over the carpet. Mom jumped in: “Tess hated the toy. Said it was ugly, hacked it up herself.”
Aunt Linda’s smile iced over; every New Year after that, she slid my red envelope to Zach instead. Guilt nipped Mom for maybe three weeks—then dissolved like cheap bourbon.
In our house love was doled out on a spreadsheet:
Jenna = Dad’s lucky charm—his company boomed the year she was born.
Zach = Mom’s miracle son after two girls—her forever baby.
Me = The twin who lived while my brother died in the NICU—walking jinx.
I never understood why their cravings shaped the menu—Zach wants steak? Porterhouse tomorrow. Jenna mentions crab legs? Suddenly Dad’s booking Red Lobster for my birthday dinner even though shellfish sends me into hives.
When I was twelve an earthquake rattled the county. Everyone napping—Dad scooped Zach, Mom grabbed Jenna, bolted downstairs. I sprinted after them under a ceiling that looked ready to pancake. Nobody came back for me. Same energy later when Kyle North had his hands on my throat in a god‑forsaken patch of forest, but that’s a chapter the living crowd hasn’t read yet.
Reception’s over, guests gone. Dad’s face flips to default scowl as soon as the getaway Tesla rolls off. “Susan, keep calling Tessa.”
Jenna’s eyes are glassy, diamond studs catching the light. She clutches Dad’s arm, voice all sugar: “Let it go, Dad. Tess is still a kid, throwing a tantrum. I’m her sister—I shouldn’t hold it against her.”
Dad’s heart visibly melts.
Zach snorts. “Sis, you’re too damn nice. She ever treat you like family?”
Jenna bites her lip, almost crying—Oscar‑level.
I watch, equal parts numb and amused. No matter how much love they shovel onto Jenna, the pit inside her screams for more—because as long as I exist, she’s not the only daughter. And she hates that.
Truth is, Mom wasn’t always a monster. On my birthdays she’d bring home a store‑bought cake. She lit the candles once; I inhaled to make a wish—and Jenna burst into tears.
She dabbed away fake sobs, smiling bravely. “Nothing, just remembered today should’ve been two birthdays.”
Mom’s face hardened. I hadn’t even blown out the flames before she yanked every candle, snarling, “All you think about is stuffing your face! Your twin brother died because of you—have you no shame?”
I froze; Mom swept the whole cake into the trash.
With the audience gone, Jenna dropped the Disney act. Ten‑year‑old grin—sweet as antifreeze.
“Tess, why were you even born? Mom and Dad loved me alone—you should’ve died with your brother.” She pinched my cheek hard enough to bruise, still smiling.
When Zach arrived three years later, she adored him. Go figure.
Senior year, with Zach entering eighth grade, Mom ordered me to pick a local college so I could babysit. I told her no. Her eyes went arctic. “Do you ever think about this family?”
The month I left for the University of Chicago, twenty‑two‑year‑old Jenna suddenly needed piano lessons. Mom gutted my bedroom—trashed my bed and dresser, stacked my clothes in garbage bags, wheeled in a glossy black Steinway.
Jenna posted a Reels clip: sun‑drenched smile, manicured fingers gliding over ivory. #NewHobby #Grateful.
I called home. Mom, still pissed, said flatly, “Your wings are grown. Room’s pointless if you’re never here.”
Jenna grabbed the phone: “Tess, don’t stress Mom, okay? Crash with me when you’re home—there’s always space.” Tiny lilt of laughter she couldn’t hide.
I’d been gone thirty days and she was thrilled to evict my ghost. Mom green‑lit the whole plan.
That’s the Harper household: love as a zero‑sum game—and I was the math error nobody wanted on the spreadsheet.
Jenna and Finn roared off to their shiny new McMansion; Mom, Dad, and Zach piled into Zach’s Chevy Tahoe. The front‑seat throne—always Jenna’s spot—sat empty.
I hovered like cold breath above the passenger airbag while the happy trio dissected my “crimes.”
Mom sagged against Dad’s shoulder, eyes puffy. “She hates me, hates this family—couldn’t even show up for her sister’s wedding.”
Dad rubbed her arm. “Stop hurting yourself over a feral stray. Some dogs just can’t be house‑trained.”
I studied their faces, hunting for a flicker of worry. Nothing. My sudden radio silence registered as pure annoyance, never concern. Not one of them wondered, Maybe Tess is dead in a ditch.
I started crying—yeah, ghosts can leak. Then I laughed through the tears.
“Mom, did you ever actually love me? If you did, why the hell did you bother having me?”
Same question I’d hurled back in ninth grade, the year everything almost felt… normal.
Dad was on the road chasing contracts, Jenna a college freshman, Zach still a scrawny middle‑school brat. Mom got nailed with kidney stones; I sprinted between classes and St. Luke’s Hospital till my jeans practically slid off. She bragged to nosy neighbors that I was so dedicated. Even spotted me extra lunch money.
A bully problem? She marched into school and lit the principal up. For a hot minute I thought, Maybe we’ll make it.
Then one dusk we crossed Maple Avenue; she slipped her arm through mine—mother‑daughter sitcom stuff. Instinct punched me; I shook her off and she stumbled. Horns blared, a Civic skimmed our knees, and her eyes iced over again.
“Figures. Stray mutt can’t even handle affection.”
That night guilt chewed me raw; I jabbed compass points into my forearm just to bleed out the panic. I finally crept to her bedroom. “If you don’t love me, Mom, why’d you let me be born?”
She pretended to sleep. Same silence now, only colder.
After dinner Zach rang my cell—maybe the thousandth time—and somebody answered.
He exploded. “Tess, you psycho! Jenna’s wedding, Mom crying her lungs out—think this is funny?”
A gravelly male voice cut in. “I’m her boyfriend.”
“She says y’all are disgusting and she’s never coming back. Quit calling.” Click.
Zach stared at the phone like it bit him, then kicked a dining‑room chair across the tile. Rage echoed off drywall.
Me? I went rigid. That voice—instant wormhole back to that night.
I’d missed the last Amtrak out of Chicago after an overtime slog, grabbed a rideshare to the Greyhound depot. Driver was a ghost‑pale twentysomething with sunken eyes, familiar but unplaceable. I collapsed against the window.
Small talk, standard stuff—until Jenna rang, needing one more jab before beauty sleep.
“Tess, I’m marrying Finn tomorrow! I’m too excited to crash. Thanks for introducing us.”
My fists clenched. “Jesus, Jenna—how many dirty plays until you’re bored?”
She just giggled. “See ya at the altar!”
I hung up, lungs burning. Driver glanced over. “Trouble with family?”
That’s when I noticed—no highway signs, just black cornfields and a lonely two‑lane slicing nowhere Illinois. Heart hammered. I steadied my voice. “Look, if you’re planning a scam, I’ve got cash.”
He wanted more than cash. Sleep‑deprived, limbs jelly, I never stood a chance. He clamped a hand over my mouth and hauled me into a stand of oaks off the road.
Night air dead still, moonlight silver. He throttled me, slapped until my ears rang. “Remember me, bitch? Bet you regret ditching me for that rich kid.” He wanted me to beg, bark like a dog.
I’d never seen him in my life. But something about his face… maybe a coffee‑shop barista, a guy on the corner—couldn’t pin it.
Clawing dirt, I found my phone, mashed the last‑dial key. Ring… Ring… Jenna let it go, then hit decline.
He smirked, pocketed the phone, snapped every finger on my right hand. Then came the switchblade. He sawed my left wrist, peeled skin off my cheek like wet wallpaper.
“Let’s see you seduce anybody with that face.”
No clue if I died from shock or blood loss—only remember the prairie wind screaming across raw flesh. Dying yanks weird memories:
Five‑year‑old me on Grandma Lillian’s Indiana farm. She sautéed spring ramps and eggs just for me, swore the patch was too small for Jenna’s appetite. Mom called demanding ramps for Princess Jenna; Grandma winked—Sorry, crop failed this year. Best taste I ever knew.
Grandma died that fall, cancer. Mom dragged me back to suburbia and whispered to Dad, “Kid must be cursed—buried her own grandma.”
Five‑year‑olds don’t grasp mortality. I just knew no one else would ever pick me first.
Wind ripped my soul loose; I floated above the scene. Kyle North dragged a hatchet from his trunk, hacked my joints for easier burial.
I saw a freight train slice through silent cornfields, lights blinking like distant galaxies. I saw some random condo kid wake screaming, parents rushing in to cradle her.
I saw Jenna yawn at dawn, Mom ushering her into the beaded gown.
Yeah. I came back—dead—and still showed up for Jenna’s big day.
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