I Died—Now My Family Has to Beg / Chapter 1: The Day I Died—Again
I Died—Now My Family Has to Beg

I Died—Now My Family Has to Beg

Author: Susan Rodriguez

Chapter 1: The Day I Died—Again

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I found out after I died: my rich birth parents never wanted me back.

The revelation hit like a punch to the gut. I always figured they missed me. Deep down, I thought they wanted me home. Guess I was wrong. The truth was, I was just a burden they’d been forced to shoulder—a ghost from the past they couldn’t ignore because of some twisted rule. It stuck with me, like a bad taste I couldn’t wash out, even after everything that happened next.

A system. Not fate, not love. If they didn’t win me over, they’d die. That was it.

It wasn’t fate or guilt or any sense of family that brought me back. Pure, cold self-preservation—that’s what did it. That was the only reason they dragged me home, kicking and screaming on the inside. Sometimes I wondered if they ever looked me in the eye. Or if all they saw was the ticking clock over my head.

The new house they gave me reeked of chemicals. Even the air felt wrong.

It wasn’t the usual new-house smell from fresh paint or new carpet. I’d smelled fresh paint before. This was different. Sharper. Meaner. It was acrid, stinging—the kind of scent that clings to your nostrils and makes your eyes water. Even standing in the doorway, my skin prickled. It didn’t feel like a home—it felt like a warning.

They took me out of town right before the SAT.

No explanation, no apology—just a sudden trip that ripped me away from everything I’d worked for. No warning. No chance to fight. The timing couldn’t have been worse. I remember sitting in the back seat, staring out the window as the city lights faded, wondering if they even knew—or cared—what those tests meant for my future.

The girlfriend they picked for me was fragile. Unpredictable. Some days, it felt like I was her last lifeline.

I was supposed to be her anchor. Funny, no one asked if I was drowning too. Every conversation felt like I was tiptoeing on broken glass, trying not to make things worse.

In the end, I was stabbed to death by someone whose mind had snapped.

Sometimes, I still see it. That wild look. The glint of steel. The cold shock of pain. There was no last-minute rescue. No dramatic confession. Just blood on the floor. And silence. Even now, my chest aches with the emptiness.

Not a single person in the family shed a tear for me.

Not one. No trembling hands. No choked sobs. Just a quiet, relieved acceptance, like I was just a problem that finally went away. The room felt colder than ever, and the world spun on, indifferent.

Only then did I realize that, even with the system breathing down their necks, my so-called family always favored the golden child—their adopted son. Carter. The golden boy. Always the favorite. Always the star. I was just background noise, a bitter afterthought.

It wasn’t about blood. Or fate. Or destiny. It was about Carter. Always had been.

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