Patrick Monroe took me to a party hosted by a beautiful lady named Caroline Bishop. While eating a piece of cake, I bit into a cherry hidden in the filling and immediately spit it out. I had once nearly died from breaking out in hives after eating cherries, so even at my young age, I knew that taste too well. Caroline looked disappointed and said, “Just like finding a coin in a New Year’s pastry for good luck, I hid a cherry in the mini cake as a special treat. I didn’t think Charlie would be so ungrateful.” Before I could explain, Dad shoved me outside into the yard as punishment. Mom always told me that with the temperature over 100 degrees, I should stay indoors and not run around. So this is what hot weather feels like. My skin felt itchy, and it was getting hard to breathe. I wanted to find Dad, but no matter how much I knocked, he wouldn’t open the door. Through the glass patio doors, I saw him glance coldly at me before looking away, refusing to let me back inside. When Mom found me using the GPS on her smartwatch, I was lying on the ground, my skin covered in red, itchy hives. Dad was nearby, still muttering, “Your son is just spoiled by you! No manners at all, spitting food on the table when there’s a trash can right there. Can’t even accept a simple gesture. He’s just like you…” Mom, furious, slapped Dad and then scooped me up and ran to the hospital. I hovered above, watching everything unfold quietly. I hated Dad. He never cared about Mom or me. Yes, I was dead. So this is what death feels like. Was old Mr. Thompson next door floating like this when he passed last year? I didn’t see him then, so could it be that Mom and Dad can’t see me now? But I could see them. I watched Mom holding me, crying desperately as she waited for an ambulance. Then she pleaded with the doctor to save me. The doctor stared at a screen and sighed. Three flat lines, perfectly still. Mom rushed around, doing everything by herself, as I watched “me” being wheeled into a small chamber. Later, a man handed Mom a small urn. She sat on the curb, clutching that urn and staring blankly at the traffic until night fell and she finally went home. In bed, she would sob into her pillow or stare at the ceiling in silence. I lay beside her, trying to pat her like she used to do when she put me to bed. But I could only watch as my hand passed right through her. I screamed, startled, but Mom didn’t react. She lay there, unmoving, so I got up and walked to the half-finished building blocks we’d been playing with. I tried to finish building it, but my hand went right through the pieces. I tried turning on the TV to watch cartoons, but that didn’t work either. So I went back to the bed to lie next to Mom. At least being there in silence wasn’t so bad. But wasn’t Mom hungry? She didn’t get up to eat. I missed Mom’s honey-glazed chicken wings! But I was dead, which meant I’d never have them again. I counted to the third day, and Mom finally got up. She looked at her phone. No messages. I was dead, and despite Mom’s sadness, Dad hadn’t called even once. Do other dads act like this too? I watched as Mom took a stack of papers from her nightstand. I recognized the big words at the top: Divorce Agreement. That document had been in her nightstand for as long as I could remember. She’d often glance at it, then look at me, and put it back. Finally, Dad came home. He stormed into the living room and began yelling, “Your son is so rude! Caroline put so much thought into hiding that cherry in the cake—it was a sign of good luck—and he just spit it out! Then he learned to complain to you when I made him stand outside!” “And you! That was Caroline’s house! She asked why you were there, and you didn’t even answer before barging in and pushing her!” “Can’t you act civil? Did you know Caroline fell and cut her hand because of you?” Mom listened, expressionless, maybe because his words couldn’t hurt her anymore. Ever since Caroline had reappeared in our lives, Dad had grown increasingly impatient with Mom, saying things that hurt her deeply. I wanted to tell him, “I’m already dead. Isn’t that enough of an apology to Caroline? Can you stop blaming Mom now?”
When Mom didn’t respond, Dad’s voice rose again, “I’m talking to you! Are you deaf?” “Do you know how embarrassed I was when you slapped me in front of everyone?” “Your son’s awful behavior comes straight from you! He’s nothing like Caroline’s daughter!” He got up and started towards my room. “I’ll raise him myself from now on. I won’t let you turn him into a spoiled brat!” Mom stepped in front of him, smirking sarcastically. “You remember Charlie is your son? You always call him ‘my son, my son,’ and I thought he was just mine. Fine then, let’s get a divorce.” Dad scoffed at the papers in front of him. “You’ve got to be kidding. This marriage was something you begged for. Now you want to end it just like that?” Mom sighed, exhaustion written all over her face. “Yes. You don’t love me or Charlie. Let’s stop torturing each other. Sign it, and you can be with your ‘one true love.’ What’s stopping you?” Dad shoved her hand away, making her stumble. “You’re crazy! You barged into her home, and Caroline was kind enough not to press charges. Otherwise, that would’ve been breaking and entering! Your son learned from you—no manners at all. I made him stand outside, and he acts like he’s dying.” “And you indulge him, then come at me with this divorce nonsense. What’s in your head?” Mom’s voice shook with rage. “What’s in mine? What’s in yours? Did you know Charlie is allergic to cherries?” “The first time he ate one, he broke out in hives and couldn’t breathe. There was a cherry in that cake—why wouldn’t he spit it out?” “I had to save my son—why wouldn’t I burst in? If Caroline hadn’t stopped me… maybe Charlie…” Tears started streaming down Mom’s face again, and I wanted to hug her, to comfort her like she always did for me. Dad just scoffed, even chuckling dryly. “Oh, please. A cherry? That’s nothing. An allergy? Next, you’ll tell me he’s allergic to air.” “How would I not know if that happened before? You’re always using him as a way to control me. You think you wouldn’t have told me if that had happened? You’ve got quite an imagination.” “Other kids aren’t allergic. Why is our son the fragile one? Today, I’m going to fix this.” “All he does is cry and whine. Anyone would think he was dead already!” With that, Dad went to the kitchen, grabbed the cherries he had brought home a few days ago, and headed for my room. Mom watched him, shaking her head, and sat back down on the couch, silent. Caroline loved cherries. Every time Dad came back from her place, he brought a bag of them “for us to share.” They would sit until they rotted, and Mom would throw them out. If Dad caught her, he would scold us for wasting a thoughtful gift. Every time, Mom reminded him that I was allergic, but he never believed it. Once, when Mom wasn’t home, Dad had ordered a cherry smoothie and tried to force me to drink it. He muttered, “Your mother keeps saying you’re allergic to cherries. I don’t buy it. She’s just refusing Caroline’s goodwill.” In desperation, I bit him, and he let me go, shoving me to the floor and kicking me a few times before leaving. Cherry juice was everywhere—on the floor, on my clothes.
I didn’t want Mom to worry, so I mimicked what I’d seen her do and put my clothes in the washer, then mopped up the mess. When she came back and saw I’d changed, she asked why. I blushed and lied, saying I’d had an accident. She laughed at me for days over that. Dad, of course, wouldn’t find me in my room now, because “I” was already in a little urn. He glared at Mom. “Helen, you’re crafty, aren’t you? Hiding the kid before bringing up divorce.” “You have no money, no job, no background, and you know you wouldn’t win custody. You’re trying to hold on to him to keep me close, huh? Want money, is that it? How sly can you get?” “Fine, we can divorce, and I might even give you a little something. But Charlie stays with me.” Mom listened to his cruel words without saying a word. Then she stood up, grabbed her packed bags and my urn, and walked out without looking back. Dad shouted after her, “Go! Get as far away as you can! If it weren’t for my parents, I’d never have married you. Don’t come crawling back!” Even though I knew Dad couldn’t hear me, I shouted at him, “I don’t want to go with you. I want Mom! You’re a bad dad!” I then ran to catch up with Mom, leaving that hateful place behind. Mom used to tell me stories before bed, including how she and Dad met. She probably thought I was too young to understand, but I remembered every detail clearly. Mom and Dad had known each other since childhood. Their families were close friends, and they had been engaged from a young age. Later, Mom’s family suffered financial ruin. Grandma and Grandpa, unable to bear the blow, passed away one after the other. Patrick’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe, took in my mom, who was still in middle school, and insisted that the engagement be honored. At first, they were too young to grasp the concept of marriage, so they just went about their days eating, laughing, and playing together as close friends. But when they reached college, Dad fell for Caroline Bishop. Caroline, however, didn’t feel the same way. She was in love with her professor, a married man in his forties. She even followed him abroad. Dad wanted to follow her. Mr. and Mrs. Monroe were furious and confined him to the house, forcing him to marry Mom. Mom said she never really loved Dad. She had been cherished and protected by her parents and later by Patrick’s parents, never facing hardship—a flower in a greenhouse. If she didn’t marry him, she wouldn’t have known where to go or what to do. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe had raised her with the sole hope of her marrying Patrick. She couldn’t turn her back on that. Mom thought that, at the very least, their childhood bond would allow them to live as respectful partners. But Dad grew to resent her for it. He thought Mom had been after the family’s wealth and feared that if he married someone else, she would no longer benefit from the title of fiancée or Mrs. Monroe. He was convinced she had tattled on him and begged Mr. and Mrs. Monroe to push the marriage. To him, she was the one who had stopped him from pursuing his love, separating him from his true happiness. From what I could remember, Dad hardly ever came home. Especially after Caroline reentered his life, every visit ended in a bitter argument. Mom and I moved into an apartment that Mr. and Mrs. Monroe had signed over to her before their deaths. Maybe they foresaw this day and wanted her to have a place of refuge. The small apartment was cozy. Mom placed “me” in a corner on a low cabinet. I heard her speaking to me, “Charlie, I’m sorry I couldn’t take better care of you these past few days. I’ve been so overwhelmed. I’ll find you a resting place soon, okay?” I nodded, but remembering she couldn’t see me, I felt a wave of sadness. Mom would never see me again. We’d never bake cookies, build towers with blocks, or share bedtime stories… I followed her as she searched for a cemetery. Mom picked a spot high up on a hill where we could see the amusement park in the distance, with its giant Ferris wheel turning slowly. Just as she was about to sign some papers handed over by a manager, her phone rang. It was the property manager at Maplewood Apartments, telling her someone had forced their way inside. Mom rushed to grab a cab back. Mark Sanders, the property manager, and James Turner, the security guard, were held back by a few large men. Inside, Dad’s voice roared, “How hard is it to search a few rooms? Where is he?” Mom hurried into the room. “What do you think you’re doing?” Patrick Monroe stood with his hands in his pockets, glaring at her. “Good, you’re here. Hand over Charlie. I’m taking him to apologize to Caroline.”
Mom stared at him in disbelief. “Patrick, all this because Charlie spit out a cherry he’s allergic to? You won’t let it go? He’s your son!” Dad waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t have a son like that. A kid who’d endanger someone’s life! When I find him, he’s getting the punishment of a lifetime!” I shouted, “I didn’t do anything wrong!” Even though I was young, I knew bad people hurt others, and I wasn’t a bad person! But Dad couldn’t hear me. Mom was so angry, she wanted to strike him. “What nonsense are you talking about? Charlie’s too young to hurt anyone!” Dad, as if struck by a sudden thought, pointed at her. “That’s right! You must have put him up to it. A kid like Charlie couldn’t get acid on his own. It had to be you who told him to throw it at Caroline!” Mom, furious, grabbed a decorative vase by the door. “Throw acid? When? Where? Do you have proof? If you dare accuse my son, I swear we’ll go down together!” “Yesterday morning. Caroline was at Riverside Mall when a kid fitting Charlie’s description splashed acid on her. The security footage caught the whole thing!” Dad pulled out his phone, opened a video, and tossed it to Mom. I stood on tiptoe to look with her. The footage matched Dad’s claims. But I had died days ago—how could it have been me? Dad saw Mom’s silence as confirmation that she recognized me in the video. He crossed his arms, speaking with a condescending tone. “It’s undeniable, right? Charlie is my son. I wouldn’t mistake him. Hand him over, and I’ll take him to apologize to Caroline. With my relationship with her, she’ll forgive him. That way, the Central Police Department can close the case quietly. If the police come, it’ll be a whole different story.” “It’s not me! That’s not me, bad Dad! My shirt had a tear on the pocket, and Mom patched it with a pink pig sticker. The kid in the video doesn’t have that.” I reached out to hit Dad, but my fist just passed through him, hitting nothing but air. Mom, however, smiled coldly, eyes full of mockery. “Fine. Let’s wait for the police.” Dad’s face darkened. “Helen, don’t push your luck.”
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