Chapter 6: What Remains After Blame

But I never expected that ten years after I died, my name would come up again.

By then, Savannah was in her first year of high school.

She'd grown even prettier, raised on praise and favoritism, and she knew it.

Over the years, my mom poured money into her—art, piano, voice lessons—but she never stuck with anything.

She'd barely started high school and was already trying to quit, wanting to sign with a talent agency.

"You're too young to drop out—those agencies are scams!"

My mom and Savannah fought about it over and over. Their voices echoed through the house, louder than ever.

"You started using my photos to make money online—don't think I don't know how much ad money you've made off me!"

"All that money was spent on you! Food, clothes, everything!"

Savannah sneered. "That sounds familiar."

"What, you don't like it?" My mom was furious. "If you can make money, go ahead! But as long as you live here, you do as I say!"

Savannah turned to leave. "Who can't make money? Once I sign with a company, I'll make plenty."

"If you leave, don't come back!"

Savannah paused, looking back at her. "Didn't my sister leave and never come back? You killed her."

My mom froze. "Say that again?"

"Did I lie?" Savannah turned, standing where I had been kicked out years ago. "You killed—"

Before she could finish, my mom slapped her across the face.

The face she'd doted on for years, for no reason.

"What did I do to deserve such ungrateful kids?"

"What did I do to deserve a mom like you? You take out all your frustration on us. It used to be my sister—now she's gone, so it's just me."

"Who's frustrated?"

"Isn't it true? When Dad cheated, you didn't say a word, just took it out on me. Behind my back, you called me a slut, said pretty girls are all trash. You think I don't know?"

My mom, caught off guard, turned red and stammered, "Is that how you talk to your mother?"

"Is that how you act as a mother?"

Enraged, she raised her hand. "If I'd known you'd turn out like this, I would have loved Ellie instead. At least she was smart and obedient—always listened, no matter what I said!"

Ellie.

It was the first time in all these years she’d said my name.

And the first time she praised me.

Savannah sneered. "Sometimes I envy her—she died young, didn't have to live with you. You blamed everything on me. When you were happy, you gave me treats. When you weren't, you slapped me. Every day was like living with a time bomb."

My mom praised me.

From the tenth year after I died, all the way until she grew old.

When people asked why her younger daughter never came home,

She’d curse Savannah, then start praising me.

"My older daughter was the best—you know, she won first place in math when she was just a kid! She would've been somebody, if not for those monsters! She'd be married with kids by now—I could be a grandma."

Moved by her own words, she’d cry like a mother who lost her child.

People would stop asking questions then.

They'd all sympathize with her.

They’d find reasons for her failed life—a sudden tragedy, a daughter who died.

She ended up alone.

It wasn't her fault.

It was all the criminals' fault.

My death became her excuse.

"You don't know how smart and obedient Ellie was! So thoughtful!"

"My precious girl always walked home alone, knowing I worked hard."

"My precious girl always bought the cheapest supplies, knowing money was tight."

Someone would ask, "What did your precious Ellie look like?"

She’d rummage through Savannah’s albums, finally finding the only photo of me.

In it, I had hooded eyes and a turned-up nose.

An old, yellowed photo, edges curling.

My skin was pale and blotchy, and I was wearing that shapeless winter coat.

"Just this one?" they'd say, looking at it. "She looks—"

"Not great, but that's because she was just back from her grandma's, malnourished," my mom would jump in. "She got prettier later."

"No," they'd wave it off, looking at the photo, then at my mom. "I mean, she looks just like you—definitely your daughter."

Yeah. The person who called me ugly the most? My mom.

But she always ignored the fact that I looked just like her.

She hated my looks. Because she hated her own.

She'd been called ugly when she was young, too.

That pain, she doubled down on me, trying to make herself feel better.

Because to her, I was just an extension of herself.

She gave birth to me, raised me—so she thought she could say whatever she wanted.

But she forgot—I was a real person.

Someone who loved her, no matter what.

But she took that love and used it as a weapon to hurt me.

Her favoritism. In the end, it destroyed me, destroyed Savannah. But it couldn’t save her, either.