After they left the hospital, my soul followed them home.
Inside the living room, my daughter Chiara picked up the plush bunny sitting on the couch, her fingers curling around it instinctively.
Leila shot her a look of disdain.
“Chiara, toss that thing out. I’ll buy you something way better.”
Chiara hesitated for a moment, then gently pulled the toy closer to her chest.
She’s allergic to dust mites, but she’s always loved stuffed animals. I spent weeks searching for the right materials and hand-stitched that bunny myself—hypoallergenic and safe.
When I gave it to her, she actually smiled at me.
Floating above, I saw the flicker of conflict in her eyes.
For a moment, I felt a tiny spark of relief.
But the very next second, Chiara said, “Okay!”
She threw the bunny out the door like it was nothing more than trash.
Watching her throw away something I made with so much love, my soul felt like it was being torn apart.
Leila gave a satisfied smile. “Good girl. I already ordered the newest toy sets for you.”
She always used gifts to win Chiara's affection, using toys as weapons to push me aside. She never cared whether those toys triggered her allergies.
Later that night, when Leila brought one of those dust-filled toys into Chiara’s room, panic surged through me.
I tried to intervene. I tried everything.
But I was just a ghost now.
No one could see me. No one could hear me.
That same night, Chiara broke out in hives and was rushed to the hospital.
Leila looked at her rash-covered skin as if it were a bother. Any kindness she had ever shown was just for show—to make me suffer. Now that I was gone, she didn’t need to pretend anymore.
“Peter,” Leila said, fanning herself dramatically, “the air here is awful. I feel like I can’t even breathe.”
Peter nodded without looking at Chiara. “Mm. Just get some rest. The nurses will take care of her.”
And with that, Leila disappeared. Meanwhile, Peter buried himself in work.
For the next three days, Chiara remained completely alone in that hospital room.
I hovered nearby, helpless. My little girl was only six years old. She was still just a baby.
I’d always thought it was Leila who poisoned her against me, who made her grow distant.
Now, watching Chiara cry quietly under the covers, my heart twisted.
During a dressing change, a nurse observed bruises and needle marks on her hands and silently sighed.
“It’s always better when the real mom is around,” the nurse murmured. “Last time you reacted, it was your mom who carried you in. Poor woman was white as a sheet and stayed up all night holding you.”
Chiara blinked, confused. “My mom brought me in? Not Aunt Leila?”
The nurse shook her head with certainty. “Nope. It was your mother. I remember her clearly.”
Chiara stared at the ceiling, stunned, while pain clawed through my chest.
That night was burned into my memory. I held her hand all night, whispering comfort as she slept with a fever. But Leila stopped by in the morning just for a moment and somehow made Chiara believe she’d been there the entire time.
I tried to explain to Peter and begged him to believe me, but he didn’t.
“I saw it with my own eyes,” he snapped. “Leila was the one taking care of her!”
Later, the nurse handed Chiara a cup of medicine. She took one sip and grimaced.
“What is this?” she asked.
The nurse explained gently, “Anti-allergy meds. You’re severely allergic to dust mites, remember? You’ve got to stay away from plush toys, and don’t skip doses."
As the nurse listed precautions, my daughter’s face grew paler and paler.
When I was alive, I always made sure to avoid allergens and to ensure she took her medication regularly.
But Leila would always say, 'If the kid doesn’t want to take medicine, don’t make her. Let Auntie take her out to play instead.'
Eventually, Chiara grew closer to Leila, who spoiled her. Now, those memories played vividly in her mind, and her eyes filled with tears. She finally seemed to understand everything I had done for her.
Finally, Peter showed up.
Chiara looked up at him, her voice trembling as she cried, “Daddy… I miss Mommy.”
Peter wrapped her in his arms and gently rubbed her back.
“Leila hasn’t been feeling well. She said she’ll come visit you soon.”
In the past, Chiara would’ve been thrilled to hear that.
But this time, she shook her head.
Tears filled her eyes as she said, “Not Aunt Leila. I mean my mommy. Daddy, can we find Mommy? I really miss her…”
Peter had no response. He simply held her tighter.
Outside the door, Leila, who had planned to visit that day, paused in the hallway. She overheard every word.
Her face darkened.
Right there, she took out her phone and made a call.
“This brat’s not worth the trouble either," Leila said in anger. "I thought she was easy to manipulate, but turns out she’s just another ungrateful little punk who misses that woman. Fine. Let her go join her mother.”
Her tone was breezy, like she was chatting about lunch. But her words sent a freezing chill through me.
What was Leila planning?
After Chiara was discharged, Peter returned to the office.
A folder was waiting for him on his desk. Inside were divorce papers and a hefty stack of documents revealing all his affairs.
“Divorce?” Peter stared at the papers, stunned. “So now she’s in love with someone else? Wants to leave me? Where is she? If she’s serious about divorcing me, why doesn’t she say it to my face?”
His assistant, Benedict, hesitated. “Mr. Young, Miss Selene is dead. The funeral is this afternoon.”
Peter froze. “What do you mean by dead?”
He shot to his feet, face twisted with disbelief.
Then he laughed, incredulous. “Now, Selene’s dead and she wants a divorce?!”
Just days ago, Leila had told him I was out with another man, having dinner, shopping, and staying in hotels. She even showed him fake photos that haunted his mind.
“Sir,” Benedict said carefully, “the funeral is for your wife. All the documentation checks out. Miss Selene even bought her burial plot ahead of time. It’s likely she really has passed.”
Peter’s gaze darkened.
With a sharp slam, he threw the papers onto the desk.
“I don’t believe it!” He snarled the words through clenched teeth. “That woman lives to manipulate. First divorce, now a funeral? I’ll see for myself what kind of stunt she’s pulling now.”
