Chapter 1: Blood Ties and Betrayal

Dad was in a car accident and needed emergency treatment, but Mom—who, by some twist of fate, shares his ultra-rare blood type—was off with her cancer-stricken high school sweetheart, helping him work through his bucket list—99 wishes in all. For us, that rare blood type wasn’t just trivia; it meant Dad’s only shot at survival was in Mom’s hands, and she wasn’t even there.

It was the kind of news that makes your heart drop right into your stomach. I remember gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white as I tore through intersections, red lights blurring past. I couldn’t even think straight—just drive, just move. Panic and disbelief tangled in my chest, but the only thing I could focus on was this: get to Mom, get her to the hospital, save Dad—no matter what. When I finally found her, I dropped to my knees right there on the sidewalk, not caring who saw. I begged her. Really begged. Only she could save Dad.

The world seemed to stand still for a second—time froze, air thick and heavy—and I could feel every pair of eyes on us. My voice cracked as I pleaded, throat raw. Was she going to say no? For a heartbeat, I thought she would. But something must have broken through, because she finally agreed. We raced to the hospital, hope fraying—barely holding on, like a thread about to snap.

In the end, Dad was saved just in time, but Mom’s first love died suddenly, maybe from the shock or heartbreak.

The relief of Dad’s survival was still fresh when word came that Mason—Mom’s old flame—had passed. It was like a cold slap after a fever dream. For a moment, I just stood there, numb. I watched Mom at the funeral, her eyes dry and distant, clutching that crumpled list of wishes. She didn’t shed a tear, just held herself stiff and upright.

At his funeral, Mom clung to that wish list. She didn’t even look at me. Her voice came out icy: “It’s fine. He wouldn’t have made it anyway.”

Her words chilled the air around us. I swear, the temperature dropped a few degrees. The rest of the family exchanged uneasy glances—no one knew what to say. Mom wouldn’t meet anyone’s gaze. She just stared straight ahead, lips pressed tight, her fingers digging into that sheet of paper as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. My stomach twisted.

After that, Mom seemed to settle down and came home, fussing over Dad and me, hovering around the house like she was trying to prove something.

For a while, it almost felt normal again. Mom moved through the house with a kind of mechanical precision, tending to Dad’s recovery and fussing over me like she was following some invisible checklist. Was she really here with us? But sometimes, I’d catch her staring out the window, her face unreadable, and the air in the house would turn heavy and strange.

But on the day I picked Dad up from the hospital, Mom cut the brake line, sending the two of us—father and son—plummeting to our deaths off a cliff!

It was supposed to be a good day—Dad finally coming home. The sun was out, the air smelled like spring. I remember thinking, maybe things would be okay. But as we drove down the winding road by the cliffs, suddenly, the brakes just... vanished. The car picked up speed, Dad’s voice turned into a panicked shout. There was nothing I could do. The world spun, trees flashing by, and then—nothing but the sickening sensation of falling.

Only then did I realize Mom had always hated Dad and me, hated us for not letting her stay with her first love in his final days.

It hit me in pieces, fast and sharp—a gut punch that stole the air from my lungs. Wait. All those cold stares, the way she’d gone through the motions at home, it all made sense. She blamed us for Mason’s death, for trapping her in a life she never wanted. We were just obstacles, never family. God. How did I not see it?