The day I was born, the moment the nurse handed me to my parents, the joyful smiles on their faces instantly froze. Hovering just above my smooth, newborn head was a string of numbers that only they could see. 6,570 days. Exactly eighteen years. Not a day more, not a day less. The nurse assumed they were just nervous first-time parents. But my mom and dad knew the truth—that number was the countdown to my death. While the other families in the maternity ward were celebrating new beginnings, my parents were staring directly at my end. For the next eighteen years, I was the most cherished person in our household. No matter how tight money got, I got the fresh eggs, the new clothes, the best cuts of meat. My younger brother could only watch with hungry, envious eyes. My parents would always tell him, “Let your sister have it. She doesn't have much time left.” I grew up understanding the assignment. I never threw tantrums, never caused trouble. I just quietly waited to die. On my eighteenth birthday, I blew out the candles and sincerely said my goodbyes to the world. The next morning, my parents and my brother walked into my bedroom, dressed in somber black, their eyes red and swollen from crying. I rubbed my eyes, sat up, and smiled at them. “Good morning.” The air in the room instantly solidified. The profound grief on their faces slowly morphed into shock. Then into a stiff, awkward stiffness. And finally, into a chilling coldness. ... The silence dragged on for a full ten seconds. “How… how are you…” My brother hid behind my mom, his voice trembling like he was looking at a ghost. “I didn't die,” I said. My dad’s face cycled through several expressions before he finally forced out a strained smile. “That’s good. That’s good you didn't die…” He nudged my mom’s arm. “Go make breakfast.” My mom offered a delayed, wooden nod. She walked to the doorway, stopped, and looked back at me. The look in her eyes was so complex I couldn't understand it. For the first time in eighteen years, I felt like something in my home was terribly wrong. Breakfast was just plain oatmeal and toast. My brother, out of habit, pushed the plate of scrambled eggs toward me. I reached out to take some. Smack! My mom slapped my hand away so hard it left a bright red mark. “You're an adult now! Are you really going to fight your little brother for eggs? Grow up and be considerate for once.” I pulled my hand back and quietly finished my oatmeal. After breakfast, I immediately jumped up to wash the dishes. In the past, whenever I tried to do chores, my mom would rush over, stop me, and say with a doting smile, “Oh, sweetheart, you don't need to do that. Let Mom handle it.” This time, she just shot me a cold, sideways glance and said nothing. After washing the dishes, I forgot to wring out the sponge and left it sitting wet on the edge of the sink. My mom walked into the kitchen, saw the sponge, and her expression instantly twisted in fury. “Are you blind?! You just leave a soaking wet sponge sitting there to grow mold?!” I was startled and quickly reached for the sponge. “I raised you for eighteen years!” she screamed, following right behind me, her voice shrill. “We gave you the best of everything! The eggs, the meat, the brand-new clothes! Has your brother ever worn anything that wasn't a hand-me-down?! You’ve been living like a princess! And you can't even wash a damn dish right…” “Mom, I washed them. It’s just the sponge…” “Don't you dare talk back to me! Are you out of your mind?!” She snatched the sponge from my hand and violently hurled it onto the floor. “Look at you! Walking around with that miserable look on your face! You’ve been alive for eighteen years and you don't even know how to wring out a sponge! What use are you?!” My dad walked into the kitchen at that moment. He looked at my mom, who was red in the face with rage, and then at me, standing there in utter shock. He waved his hand dismissively, like he was breaking up a pointless argument. “Enough yelling. Both of you, go find something useful to do.” I bit my lip hard, my voice barely above a whisper. “Mom, Dad… are you acting like this because I didn't die?” Their bodies instantly went rigid. My dad took a deep breath, forced an awkward, hollow laugh, and said, “We’re just… we haven't adjusted yet. We need… we need some time to process this…” I watched them walk away. Faintly, I heard my dad mutter under his breath, “Eighteen years, and she just doesn't die. What kind of sick joke is this?” I couldn't understand it. I was alive. Wasn't that something to celebrate? I looked out the kitchen window. The sunlight looked exactly the same as it always did. But as it fell on my skin, it suddenly felt freezing cold. After that day, the atmosphere in the house changed completely. I was moved into the cramped storage room. My mom said my brother was a growing boy and needed the larger bedroom with better sunlight. My mom stopped asking what I wanted for dinner. Instead, when setting the table, she would set one plate short in silence, shoot me a resentful glare, and then reluctantly grab another set of silverware. My dad spoke even less. Sometimes, when he came home from work and saw me sitting on the porch, he would pause, then intentionally walk around the house to use the back door. Only my brother would occasionally linger near the storage room door, watching me. The look in his eyes was strange—like he was observing a freak of nature. Before, I was the precious treasure they had spent eighteen years desperately loving. Now, I was the scapegoat for every single thing that went wrong in the house. If a faucet wasn't turned off all the way, my dad’s brow would furrow deeply. The gentle tone he used to use with me was completely gone. “Did you do that on purpose? Do you know how expensive the water bill is?! All you do is drain our resources!” “Dad, I swear I didn't…” “Don't call me Dad!” he roared, before turning and storming off. When my brother failed a math test by one point, my mom exploded. “It’s because you're constantly hovering around the house, distracting him! We were supposed to finally be able to live a normal, peaceful life, and you ruined everything!” If the rice at dinner was slightly undercooked, my mom would slam her fork down. “It’s because you didn't die! You bring bad luck to this house! Even the stove is fighting against me now!” I stood there, helpless, my eyes red and tears streaming down my face. I muttered brokenly, “I thought I was going to die, too.” The breaking point happened one evening when I flipped a light switch, the bulb flickered, and then blew out completely with a loud pop. My mom completely lost her mind. “You are a curse! Ever since you lived past eighteen, everything in this house breaks! You're a jinx!” “Eighteen years! Six thousand days! Your father and I counted down every single day raising you! We gave you everything, and left your brother with nothing! We mentally prepared ourselves to say goodbye to you, over and over and over again… and you…” She didn't finish the sentence, but I understood perfectly. Their eighteen years of sacrifice, the neglect they showed my brother, the agonizing countdown they had so carefully managed—it had all turned into a massive, humiliating joke. It wasn't because I was alive. It was because they realized that all the money they had spent on me, all the things they had denied my brother—things that were supposed to be justified and resolved the moment I died—were now entirely meaningless. I thought that if I just worked myself to the bone, if I swallowed my pride and endured the abuse, if I somehow made up for my "mistake" of surviving, my parents' hearts would soften. I thought they would remember how much they used to love me. I took over every single chore in the house. I did the laundry, cooked the meals, bought the groceries, mopped the floors. I worked harder than a paid housekeeper. I cooked elaborate, different meals every day. I kept the house spotless. But no matter how perfectly I did everything, it never earned me a single kind word or a smile from my parents. I grew thinner and thinner, my face gaunt and exhausted. The neighbors eventually noticed the shift in how I was being treated and began gossiping. One neighbor tried to reason with my parents. “Don't be so hard on Mia. She’s still your daughter.” My mom, right in front of the neighbor, scrunched her face in absolute disgust. “As far as we're concerned, we never had a daughter. She’s a freak. She’s a curse on our family’s luck! Keeping her around just brings us endless misery!” My dad chimed in right beside her. “We raised her for eighteen years! We’ve fulfilled our moral obligation! Now she’s just leeching off us, dragging this family down!” Those words were like daggers plunging directly into my heart. The pain was so suffocating I couldn't breathe. Every minor inconvenience in the house became a weapon they used to attack me. But it was an incident with my brother that became the final straw. That day, it was just my brother and me at home. I needed to use the bathroom, but when I tried to open the storage room door, the handle wouldn't turn. I panicked, pounding frantically on the wood. “Leo! Open the door!” No one opened the door. Instead, I heard a loud crash from the kitchen—the sound of things shattering—followed by a cry of pain and Leo screaming. When the door finally opened, it was my mom. The second the door swung wide, she slapped me across the face with everything she had. “You jinx! I knew leaving you home alone would end in disaster!” Her eyes were bloodshot; she looked like a rabid animal. She collapsed onto the floor, slapping her own thighs and wailing. “My life is a curse… raising a freak for a daughter! You ruined any chance this family had at a good life!” My dad came home right then. He saw Leo’s broken leg, he saw my mom acting like a lunatic, and the madness seemed to infect him instantly. He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, hauled me up, and violently threw me back onto the small cot in the storage room. “Mia! You are a plague on this house! Just die already!” My voice was raw and hoarse from crying as I desperately tried to explain. “Mom, Dad, it wasn't my fault! Leo was trying to steal the cookies from the top cabinet and he slipped…” They didn't listen. They locked the door from the outside. No food. No water. I could hear everything happening outside. My mom cooking dinner in the kitchen. My dad’s heavy footsteps pacing the living room. Leo loudly complaining about his leg hurting. No one mentioned me. Not once. I curled into a tight ball on the freezing cot. My cheek was swollen and burning from the slap. My body was on fire with a high fever, yet I was shivering uncontrollably from the cold. My consciousness began to blur. I thought, This time, I’m really going to die. Good. Dying is better. Dying means I’m finally free. In my delirium, the eighteen years of my life flashed through my mind like a movie on fast-forward. As far back as my memory goes, I could feel the different way my parents looked at me. At first, I didn't understand the meaning behind that gaze. It felt like they were looking at a fragile porcelain doll that could shatter at any moment. It was careful, but loaded with a complex emotion I couldn't decipher. Later, I realized it was a mix of pity, helplessness, and profound sorrow. They never, ever talked about my future. Our family was always living on a countdown. The neighborhood moms would praise me for being so mature. They said I was always so quiet, never throwing fits or making a fuss. They didn't know I wasn't making a fuss because I just didn't see the point. I grew up fast. I was mature because I had nothing to fight for. Kids in kindergarten would cry over a piece of candy or throw a tantrum because they didn't get a gold star. I never did. The candy I was given was always the biggest piece. The gold star was always handed to me first. My teachers loved me. They said I was an "easy" child to manage. Only I knew that I wasn't "easy." I was just waiting. Waiting for the day that invisible number hit zero. When my brother was born, I could feel the guilt in my parents' eyes even more intensely. When he was five, he snuck a piece of meat from my plate. My mom caught him and spanked him mercilessly. He cried and screamed, “Why does she get to eat it, but I can't?!” My mom didn't answer. She just kept spanking him. Afterward, she hid in the kitchen and cried for a long time. “Sis,” my brother had whispered to me later. “Are you really going to die?” “Mom says you're going to die. Sis, I don't want you to die. You can have all the meat from now on.” The memories of my mom and brother’s eyes from back then tangled with the look in their eyes now, making my head pound with agonizing pain. Did they love me? Yes. They did. But that love had an expiration date. It was entirely predicated on the countdown. It was a love built entirely around the concept of saying goodbye. Eighteen years. The countdown ended, and so did their love. I figured if I died now, maybe that love would be preserved in their memories. We would all remember each other at our absolute best. My mom, stroking my hair with a loving smile. “Mia is the most beautiful princess in this new dress.” My dad, lifting me high into the air, promising to show me the most beautiful sights in the world. My brother, secretly saving his favorite yogurt drinks just to give them to me. Those moments felt so incredibly close, yet impossibly far away. I forced my heavy eyelids open. I was still in the storage room. There was no light coming in. There was nothing. I twitched my fingers, trying to reach under my pillow for the letter. A letter I had written to my mom, my dad, and my brother. I had written it a long time ago. I pulled a weak, bitter smile. I just hadn't managed to die on schedule. There was also a pink piggy bank. It wasn't much, but it was enough to buy a small toy for Leo. I drifted off to sleep again. I thought that when they finally found me and saw those things, maybe they wouldn't be so angry at me anymore. This time, my sleep was incredibly deep. Dreamless. I could hear my own heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. And then, slowly, very slowly… it stopped. The storage room fell completely, utterly silent. No one knew. No one came to check. The little girl who had spent her entire life waiting to die… finally didn't have to wait anymore. The moment I detached from my body, I felt incredibly, impossibly light. I floated in the air near the ceiling, looking down at my stiff, lifeless body on the cot. I marveled at the fact that souls actually existed after death. I phased right through the drywall and finally stepped out of that cramped, suffocating room. Lunch was set on the dining table. Three place settings. My mom had finished cooking. My dad was serving the rice. My brother was sitting at the table, waiting. I floated over and sat in my usual chair, waiting for one of them to ask, “Where’s Mia?” But no one did. After lunch, my brother limped toward the storage room. My eyes lit up. I screamed silently, Leo, open the door! I promise I’ll never be a burden to you guys again! But before his hand could even touch the doorknob, my mom’s voice lashed out from the kitchen. “Leo! What do you think you're doing?! Get away from that door! Do you want your leg to hurt worse?!” Leo flinched, terrified, and quickly hobbled away. That afternoon, Mrs. Higgins from next door came over to borrow some salt. “Where’s Mia? I haven't seen her around the last couple of days.” My mom’s expression went rigid for a second, but she quickly smoothed it over. “She’s not feeling well. She’s resting in her room.” “Is it serious? I have some medicine at my house if…” I offered a sad, bitter smile. Mrs. Higgins, no medicine in the world can save me now. “No, no, it’s fine!” my mom said, her voice a little too rushed. “It’s just… she’s fine. She just needs a couple days of rest.” Mrs. Higgins didn't press the issue, and I lost my chance to be discovered. After she left, my mom glanced nervously toward the storage room door several times, but she never once walked over to check on me. When my dad got home from work that evening, I spread my arms wide and tried to block his path. Dad! Please, I’m begging you, just go look at me! I promise I won't make you guys angry ever again! The countdown is really over this time! But my dad walked right through me. “She still locked in there?” he asked. My mom didn't say anything. “Open the door,” my dad said. I was practically weeping with joy. Was I finally going to be discovered? Would my mom and dad be sad? Would they tell me I was a good girl? As my mom took a step toward the storage room, the house phone suddenly began ringing frantically. My dad picked it up. His face instantly drained of all color. He looked like he was about to collapse. My mom was startled. She ran over and grabbed his arm to steady him. I sighed. I was so close. So incredibly close to being found. “We have to go! We have to go back to my hometown right now! My brother just called… Grandma is dying!” They scrambled to grab their coats and rushed out the door with Leo. The storage room door remained locked. I was forgotten once again. Even though I was dead and had no heartbeat. Hearing the news about my grandmother still sent a phantom ache through my chest. Over the past eighteen years, Grandma loved me the most. Knowing I was only going to live to eighteen, she had spent countless nights awake, crying over me. I floated into their car and followed them back to our rural hometown, wanting to see Grandma one last time. Grandma was lying in her bed, looking as fragile as dry kindling. She gripped my dad’s hand tightly, forcing the words out with agonizing effort. “David… where is Mia? Why isn't she here?” My dad looked away, his face etched with guilt. “She… she stayed home. She didn't come…” Grandma’s eyes suddenly widened in horror. “You bastard. What did you do?” My dad panicked and immediately confessed the truth. “Mia just made a mistake, so I punished her by making her skip a few meals…” Hearing that, all the remaining strength seemed to leave Grandma’s body. She muttered something under her breath. “Mom? What did you say? I can't hear you.” My dad leaned in desperately close to hear her fading voice. “What about Mia? What do you mean she wasn't supposed to die?” He pressed his ear practically against her lips. I was floating too far away to hear what she said. But I watched my dad’s body instantly turn to stone, as if he had been struck by a massive bolt of lightning. The expression on his face twisted into absolute, horrifying disbelief. He even forgot to blink. “MIA!!” I jumped. My dad let out a scream of pure, unadulterated terror. His face was ghostly white. Ignoring my mom’s frantic, confused questions, he started sprinting out of the house like a madman, muttering over and over, “We got it wrong… we got it completely wrong…” What did they get wrong?
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "401612", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel