Part 3My Mother Fired My Corpse

When Katherine opens the front door, the house is a tomb. Pitch black.

Usually, no matter how late she stayed out, I’d leave a lamp on. I’d have a pot of tea or some ginger soup waiting to help her settle.

But tonight, there is only the hum of the refrigerator.

The silence grates on her nerves. She tosses her bag onto the leather sofa and shouts into the darkness.

“Cassie! Where the hell are you? You see me walk in and you can't even get me a glass of water?”

Only the ticking of the grandfather clock answers her.

“Fine. You want to play the silent treatment? Let’s play.”

She storms down the hallway to my room and kicks the door open.

“Stop acting like a martyr! Get up!”

The room is empty. The bed is made with military precision—the way I left it a week ago before the crunch started. The desk, however, is a mess of protein bar wrappers and empty Keurig pods.

Katherine scoffs. “A pigsty. Absolutely disgusting. No wonder you’re still single.”

She starts swiping the clutter off the desk in a fit of pique, but her hand stops. Tucked between a stack of invoices is a small, elegantly wrapped box with a sticky note on top.

Mom, Happy Birthday. I bought this with the bonus from my first solo project. It’s that silk scarf you’ve been eyeing. Don’t work too hard. Take care of yourself.

Today was my birthday. It was also the day I died. I knew she wouldn't remember the date—she only remembered it as "Launch Day." I had planned to bring the gift home, cook her dinner, and tell her… I was quitting.

Katherine picks up the box and tears the paper. A beautiful, peony-patterned silk scarf slides out.

For a second, her expression falters. But then the fire returns.

“You have money for this trash, but you can’t put your head down and work?” She throws the scarf onto the floor and grinds her heel into the silk. “You think a gift buys my forgiveness for walking out? Dream on, Cassie. I’m not that easy.”

She pulls out her phone, takes a photo of the soiled scarf on the floor, and sends it to my WhatsApp.

Then, she records a long, biting voice note.

“I don’t want your fake sentiment. If you aren't in that office at 8:00 AM sharp tomorrow, don't bother coming back ever. You’re done.”

Still fuming, she starts rifling through my drawers. “I know you’re hiding somewhere. Where are the keys to the lake house?”

She pulls out a crumpled piece of paper buried at the bottom. It’s a medical report from six months ago. She skims it, her eyes landing on the summary.

Severe arrhythmia. Myocardial ischemia. Immediate hospitalization recommended. Avoid high-stress environments and physical exhaustion.

I remember showing her that report. I wanted to take a week off for follow-up tests. She was on a conference call at the time and barely glanced at it.

“Doctors just say that stuff to bill the insurance,” she’d said then. “You’re thirty. You don’t have a heart condition; you have a laziness condition. If that proposal isn't done by morning, you’re sleeping at the office.”

Katherine looks at the report now and let’s out a cold snort.

“Still using this fake note?” She tears the paper in half, crumbles it into a ball, and chucks it at the bin. “Six months and you’re still clinging to the same excuse. Get a new script, Cassie.”

She sits on the edge of my bed, breathing hard, her chest heaving with indignation.

Suddenly, a muffled buzzing comes from her bag. She frowns, reaches in, and pulls out my iPad. The admin had found it at my desk and tucked it into Katherine’s bag before she left.

The screen is glowing with a recurring alarm: 11:55 PM — Heat up milk for Mom.

Katherine’s finger trembles slightly as she looks at the notification. She swipes to unlock it. There’s no passcode. The code has always been her birthday.

The screen opens to a draft message in our chat.