Part 1My Mother Fired My Corpse

I was the only nepotism hire in my mother’s department, but I wasn't there to be pampered. I was the target she used to sharpen her reputation.

To prove to the firm that she was beyond reproach, she turned me into a martyr for her ambition. When others left at five, I stayed until midnight. When the team had weekends off, I pulled all-nighters. When I told her my chest felt like it was being crushed by a vice, she tore me down in front of the entire open-plan office.

"If you want to be lazy, just say it, Cassie! Don't use your health as a shield. You’re an embarrassment to my name!"

On the morning of my thirty-second birthday, after seven straight days of graveyard shifts, my heart simply stopped. I collapsed at my desk, my face hitting the keyboard.

When the paramedics wheeled me out, she didn't even look up from her monitor. She thought I was staging a scene for sympathy. She even posted in the department’s Slack channel: “Stop the theatrics. Get back here and finish the migration. These four projects go live tonight, no exceptions.”

Eight hours after the coroner officially declared me dead, Katherine—my mother, the Senior VP—was still trying to avoid any appearance of favoritism. She added me to a new project group and sent three rapid-fire voice notes:

“How long are you going to milk this? If you’re not actually in a casket, get your ass back to work! Don’t make us a laughingstock in front of the partners!”

But Mom, I can’t come back.

* * *

I’m hovering in the stale air of the office, watching her.

No—at the office, I’m not allowed to call her Mom. I have to call her Ms. Bishop.

“Ms. Bishop, about Cassie…” Becca, the intern, starts typing in the group chat, but she’s cut off before she can finish.

An image notification pings on everyone’s phone. It’s a disciplinary notice.

My name is right there at the top: Cassandra Bishop. Violation: Unexcused absence. Penalty: Forfeiture of monthly bonus and performance pay. Formal reprimand issued.

“Let this be a lesson,” Katherine’s voice rings out through a new voice note. “In my department, nobody gets special treatment. I don’t care who you are. Disappearing to avoid a deadline is a breach of discipline I will not tolerate. This entitlement ends now.”

A waterfall of “Understood, Ms. Bishop” responses floods the screen.

Watching that notice, I almost want to laugh. Mom, I’m dead. How are you going to garnish the wages of a ghost?

I drift over to my cubicle. It’s a graveyard of my last week alive—empty espresso cans, crumpled sugar-free Red Bull tins, and stacks of data sheets.

“Maintenance, clear this trash out,” Katherine says, stepping out of her glass-walled office. She points a manicured finger at my desk. “It looks like a pigsty. It’s ruining the aesthetic of the floor. Throw it all away.”

The cleaning lady hesitates, clutching her heavy-duty trash bag. “Ms. Bishop, these are Cassie’s personal things. Maybe we should box them up for her…”

“Throw. It. Away!” Katherine snaps. “If she wants to walk out on this team, she can find her desk in the dumpster. Deactivate her keycard and lock her out of every server. I need her to realize the world doesn’t stop turning just because she has a tantrum.”

The woman doesn't argue again. She begins sweeping my life into a black plastic bag.

My lumbar pillow—a birthday gift I bought for myself last year. My bottles of aspirin and the heart medication I was never supposed to skip. And then, there’s the photo in the corner. The only photo of the two of us.

Clink.

The frame hits the bottom of the bag, and the sound of shattering glass echoes through the quiet office. I reach out instinctively, trying to catch it, but my fingers pass through the plastic, through the air, through nothing.

Is this what being dead is? The ultimate powerlessness?

Katherine stands there, arms crossed, watching them erase me. She pulls out her phone, snaps a photo of the empty desk, and posts it to her LinkedIn.

The caption reads: “Leadership requires hard choices. Even family must be held to the highest standard. To succeed in this industry, you have to kill the 'delicate' instinct. My conscience is clear.”

In less than a minute, the likes and sycophantic comments start rolling in.

“A true leader!”

“Total boss move, Katherine. Cassie needed this wake-up call.”

I float behind her, reading the screen. My heart doesn't hurt anymore. I suppose that’s the one perk of it not beating.

You got what you wanted, Mom. You proved you’re untouchable. You finally won.