Mom, Trust Me One Last Time

My mom, Claudia Evermore, was a brilliant scientist who never made mistakes. She always said I was an irredeemable liar. I endured both mental and physical torment from a young age, yet I had believed her without question, until that Christmas, when I was left to suffocate in the attic.

I felt like I was going to die, and panic surged. I could only gasp for air and crawl toward the door.

Footsteps thudded up the stairs. Mom hadn't left.

I trusted that Mom, the nationally renowned scientist, could save me. A glimmer of hope stirred in my heart.

"Jessie Hartwell, Ryan's hungry. What are you waiting for? I booked your seat at the restaurant. Don't make me regret it," Mom said, staring at me like I was completely hopeless.

She had been burning with fever last night, and I had stayed up all night to care for her, just for the chance to join her and Ryan for Christmas dinner. There was no way I was giving up now.

"Mom, I really can't breathe… It hurts so much…" I gasped, reaching for her in desperation.

She swatted my hand away and shoved her phone in my face.

"Jessie! You're at it again—lying and causing trouble at all the wrong times, just like your father. A leopard can't change its spots! Stay here and reflect. You can come out when you've really learned your lesson."

Ryan called out from outside that he was hungry. Mom responded immediately. She pushed me aside with a trace of annoyance before getting up to leave. My fingertips brushed against her velvet long skirt, but my touch was fleeting, and I grasped nothing.

I pounded my chest, but the air wouldn't come.

Mom locked the door behind her. From outside, Ryan said softly, "Jessie doesn't want to eat with us. Isn't she hungry?"

Mom's voice drifted back faintly, tinged with irritation. "Missing a single meal won't kill her. She needs to learn a lesson. Anyway, there are emergency compressed biscuits in the attic…"

Those emergency biscuits were long gone. Ryan had used them to paint dark, creepy images all over the walls. When Mom came home and saw the mess, she was furious and demanded to know who was responsible.

Ryan blinked up at her with wide, innocent eyes. "Not me."

I whispered, "Not me either."

As I shrank back and looked at Mom, I saw the little devil she had created.

She slapped me across the face. "Jessie! Not only do you look like your dad, but your personality is also just as dark and cunning! I regret having you!"

She always said I was like Dad, but I had never even seen him. The slap shot through me like electricity. I wondered how her hand could be so soft yet hurt so much. Even now, the pain left me numb and trembling.

Tears ran down my face as I pressed my body against the door, gasping for air. Darkness crept into my vision. The house below was silent, lit only by the faint purple glow of the display screen. It had to be my imagination. I didn't have asthma—I was lying, and this was the cost of my lies.

I remembered all the times I had messed up, and Mom had made me write an essay of self-reflection. With no pen or paper in the attic, I bit my finger and scrawled my apology on the door.

"Mom, I'm sorry. I'm a bad child. I promise I won't lie again, but it hurts so much. I'm terrified. I feel like I'm dying. Mom, please give me another chance."

Exhaustion drained me. My letters became messy, and the suffocating pressure only grew, swallowing me whole. I sank to my knees, losing all sense of time.

Then, a flash of blinding white light appeared. The weight lifted, and I felt lighter than ever.

When I opened my eyes, I was floating in midair. Below me, my body lay motionless against the door.

I was dead, but I still hadn't broken my habit of lying. Would Mom ever forgive me?