Not Every Sleeping Beauty Wakes Up

Four days after my death, my four-year-old daughter finally sensed that something was terribly wrong.

The fridge door slammed into her forehead when she tried to get a snack.

Normally, I would've been there in a heartbeat—arms open, kisses ready, whispering, "You're okay, sweetheart, Mommy's here."

But this time, I just lay on the bed, cold and still.​

She didn't understand. She thought the sweet treat would make me respond. So she held the final piece of chocolate up to my mouth. "Here, Mommy. Have some chocolate..."

But I didn't even blink.

She climbed into my arms, clutching my clothes tightly. "Mommy... Mommy, wake up..." She waited for me to stroke her hair, to tell her that everything was going to be fine.

There was only silence.​

Completely lost and scared, she found my phone. "Daddy, why is Mommy still sleeping?" she asked, her voice filled with desperation.​

In response, Oliver sent a photo of himself having Christmas Eve dinner with his childhood sweetheart.

His voice was icy cold when he replied, "She's just sleeping, not dead. It's Christmas Eve, and I'm busy. Tell her to stop playing games and come apologize when she's done sulking."

Then he hung up.​

But when the truth finally hit Oliver—when the coroner's report came, when the police knocked on his door right in the middle of his laughter, when he realized I'd been lying dead for four days while he toasted—he broke.

...

I still didn't respond, but my daughter had already gotten used to it.

She carefully placed half a piece of chocolate beside my pillow, then wolfed down her own half.

She stroked her stomach: she was still starving.

My daughter instinctively looked at the chocolate beside my pillow.

She wanted to eat it so much, but finally, she gave up: she saved it for me.

Then she walked into the kitchen with practiced ease, took out some leftovers that had been sitting in the fridge for who knows how many days, and began eating slowly, bite by bite.

My soul floated in the air, and seeing this scene made my heart ache.

Was this still my little princess, who would make a big fuss if she didn't get her way over something small?

How had she become like this in just four days since I died?

The phone suddenly lit up, showing a wallpaper of our family photo: in the warm and spacious Mansion, Oliver had his arms around me and our daughter, all laughing happily.

Two faces of a strong resemblance held the same bright smiles.

It was just the most ordinary morning ever.

The room was still drowning in this lazy silence, and the only sound was the faint chirping of birds drifting in from outside the window.

I was buried deep in the warm bed, and then—bam—there it was.

That familiar and soft kiss landed quietly as a whisper right on my forehead.

"One... two... three... four..."

Sleepiness? Poof. It vanished without a sound. I was wide awake.

I blinked my eyes open slowly, so slow—and there he was. Oliver, with that gentle and affectionate look in his eyes and his smile that could light up a room.

Day in, day out, he used this one-of-a-kind, love-soaked forehead kiss to wake me up.

Our daughter's watching us, eyes wide. We then laughed happily and took that picture.

The warm memory made my daughter's eyes light up:

Was this how Dad used to wake up sleepy Mom?

She put down the phone and ran to the bed.

"Mom, I know how to wake you up now! I will go find Dad. He will kiss you and wake you up like a prince wakes his sleeping beauty."

Watching my daughter march out with such determination, I froze, then instinctively reached for the shoes on the floor to put on her feet.

But my outstretched hands passed right through the shoes.

Right, I forgot.

I was already dead, and I couldn't take care of my little Amelia anymore.

...

Leaving the department, I followed my daughter to Oliver Johnson's Mansion.

It was Christmas Eve, and the streets were filled with cheerful Christmas music playing, laughter, and the sounds of holiday cheer.

Christmas trees were beautifully decorated, adding to the festive atmosphere.

The hustle and bustle was almost overwhelming.

In front of the grand Johnson's Mansion, a tall, handsome man played snowball fights in the yard with a six-year-old boy.

From time to time, the man's gentle voice rang out:

"Slow down, Leo, don't hurt yourself..."

Susan stood by, and her eyes were full of contentment.

What a happy and harmonious family.

My daughter saw this through the fence, blinked, and felt a pang in her heart.

Once, Oliver had always accompanied her in snowball fights.

Wiping her tears, my daughter stood on tiptoe and pressed the doorbell.

Soon, someone answered, but it wasn't Oliver—it was Susan.

"What are you doing here?"

Susan's smile froze instantly at the sight of my daughter, replaced by deep wariness.

She turned to glance at Oliver, who was oblivious, then relaxed slightly.

When she turned back, her face held nothing but disgust.

"Did your shameless mother send you here?

Didn't she tell you? This isn't your home anymore. Get lost, you little bitch."

My daughter flinched at her malice, her eyes quickly turning red:

"That's ridiculous! My mom is nothing like that. She is the best mom in the world. I want to see my dad!"

She glared at Susan furiously, like a hornet.

Susan sneered and pushed my daughter hard, stealthily.

My daughter, unfortunately, caught off guard, slammed her forehead into the iron gate with a loud thud.

"Who's there?" Oliver's heart skipped a beat.

Susan quickly covered my daughter's mouth and perfunctorily said:

"Nothing, just a cat. It's cold outside. Please take Leo inside."

As soon as Oliver left, Susan pinched my daughter hard, and her eyes were vicious.

"You little bitch, just like your mother—always trying to hurt me."

My daughter kept struggling, blood mixing with her tears.

"Ugh!" Susan spat on my daughter in disgust and pushed her over the snow.

"Disgusting."

My daughter got up and shouted again:

"You're the disgusting one, bad woman! I want to see Dad! Let me see Dad!"

Susan got furious and grabbed a bunch of colorful Christmas tinsel rolls—yanked them, rough as can be.

She wrapped them tightly around my daughter's neck, no mercy at all, then looped them around her wrists, too.

It was choking her. My daughter's eyes shot wide open, scared out of her mind. She tried to say something, but the tinsel squeezed so hard, she could barely catch her breath.

Red marks bloomed on her neck. Sharp pain shot from her wrists. Her little body shook.

Susan didn't care one bit about my girl's pain. Her eyes glowed with this creepy, messed-up light.

She held up her phone, pointed it right at my daughter's little face, twisted up from fear.

"Be my ‘live Christmas tree'!"

Not long after, her phone started buzzing. Susan clicked into the comments, and bam—they flooded in, from all her "friends."

"Ugly as a monster!"

"Are the tinsel rolls around her neck gonna strangle her?"

"Dumb-looking. Total Christmas tree vibes."

"Ha! This tree's so cheap."

Susan read those words—nasty, mean, full of jeers and insults—one by one to my daughter.

My girl's face went white as a sheet. Tears pooled in her eyes. She bit down hard on her lip. Her body trembled from the hurt and shame.

Just then, a voice filled with anger and confusion came from behind:

"What are you doing?"