My Death Was Known Three Years Later
Three years after I died, my mother sent me twenty dollars for living expenses.
Three years before that—the first time I ever asked my family for money—she said to me, offhand, "Sometimes I think you're just putting on an act. What's so unsanitary about a thirty-cent boxed meal? And why can't you wear a five-dollar down jacket? Face it, you're just more high-maintenance than your little brother."
Later, when I needed twenty dollars to buy some cheap medicine for my stomachache, she blocked me immediately and cut off all contact—along with every relative we had.
"Don't contact me anymore. I'm clearly not a good mother. I can't afford to give my son a life of luxury."
But for my younger brother, who had just started high school, she spared no expense—renting him a three-bedroom apartment. Even the family dog got its own room.
In the end, on the day my brother became the top scorer in the state, she finally remembered me. She took me off her block list and transferred twenty dollars.
"It's only twenty dollars. Was it really worth giving your family the silent treatment for three whole years?"
What she never knew was this—
On the night my stomach ruptured, three years ago, I had already died. I couldn't afford to go to the hospital. I froze to death in the snow.