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. 1 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. 2 8:00 PM. The project went live exactly on schedule, just hours after my body was moved to the morgue. The data was clean, the servers were humming—the result of my seven days of sleeplessness. Zero bugs. To celebrate, Katherine took the entire senior team to an upscale steakhouse downtown. The private room is glowing with warm light, the smell of expensive Cabernet and aged ribeye filling the air. “A toast to Katherine!” Robert, the assistant manager, raises his glass. “The launch was flawless. Your direction in the final stretch was masterclass.” Katherine, looking sharp in her charcoal blazer, her cheeks slightly flushed from the wine, smiles and waves him off. “It was a team effort. Mostly.” She takes a sip. “Unlike some people who flake when the pressure gets real. I had to monitor the final nodes myself.” The table erupts in polite, knowing chuckles. “Cassie’s always been a bit… coddled,” Robert adds, eager to please. “She seemed reliable, but I guess she just lacks that grit. You’re doing her a favor by being tough, Katherine. She’ll thank you one day.” “If she has the brains to understand it,” Katherine says, setting her glass down with a sharp thud. “Young people today… they have no stamina. Physical or mental. When I was pregnant with her, I was on job sites in the middle of July. I didn't take a single day off. She catches a cold and thinks the world owes her a sabbatical.” I’m perched on the chandelier, looking down at her. Mom, you were tough. I know. But you forgot that I inherited your stubbornness. If I hadn't been fading into a blur of gray pain, do you really think I would have let myself fall before the finish line? Suddenly, her phone vibrates in her Chanel bag. She pulls it out, glancing at the screen. It’s a local landline. Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe she just wants to show off how "on call" she is, but she hits speaker and drops the phone on the white tablecloth. “Katherine Bishop,” she says regally. “Hello, is this the next of kin for Cassandra Bishop? This is the administrator at the County Morgue…” Katherine freezes for a split second, then lets out a harsh, mocking laugh. “The morgue? Really? Is that the best you can do? Scammers are getting creative these days, using death threats to get a call back.” The voice on the other end hesitates. “Ma’am, I’m serious. The deceased was brought in this afternoon at—” “Enough!” Katherine barks. “My daughter is hiding at home pretending to be sick. If she thinks she can use a prank call to make me back down, tell her it’s not working. In fact, tell her she’s fired.” She hangs up and immediately blocks the number. “Disgusting,” she says, draining her glass in one go. “The girl is becoming unhinged. Hiring someone to play a coroner just to scare me? It’s pathetic.” “Unbelievable,” a colleague chimes in. “That’s a new low. Don’t let it ruin the night, Katherine. You’ve earned this.” The room settles back into its rhythm of clinking silverware and laughter. They talk about bonuses and Q4 projections while eating lobster tail and drinking fifty-dollar pours of bourbon. And my body is lying in a steel drawer, waiting for a mother who isn't coming. As the dinner ends, Katherine looks at the leftover risotto on her plate. On her way out, she spots a stray dog near the valet stand. She tips the container of expensive food into the dirt for the dog. “Go on,” she says, patting the dog’s head with a rare, soft smile. “At least a dog knows how to show a little gratitude. Sometimes, children aren't worth the investment.” 3 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. 4 The draft is only one line. No excuses. No pleading. No anger. It just says: Mom, it really, really hurts. Can I just sleep for a little while this time? Just a little while… The words pierce her, but she shoves the feeling down. “Hurts too much to work, but not too much to text?” She stares at the screen, her eyes rimmed with red, her teeth clenched. “Even your messages are designed to make me feel guilty. You’re pathetic, Cassie.” She tosses the iPad onto the bed and walks out, slamming the door. “Fine. Stay gone. Die for all I care. At least I’d finally have some peace.” She shuts her own door. I float by the bedside, watching the screen of the iPad slowly dim and go black. You win, Mom. I’m finally sleeping. And this time, I won't wake up to your shouting. The next morning, the sun is barely up when Katherine’s phone explodes. As a VP, she’s used to being reachable 24/7, but this isn't a client. It’s the Head of HR. “Katherine… check the company-wide Slack. Now.” The man’s voice is shaking. “Something has happened. Something terrible.” Katherine rubs her temples, clicking into the app. The "General" channel, which has five hundred employees, is moving so fast the messages are a blur. At the top of the feed is a leaked image. It’s a morgue intake form. Name: Cassandra Bishop. Age: 32. Time of Intake: Yesterday, 4:30 PM. Cause of Death: Sudden Cardiac Arrest. The silence in the chat is deafening, followed by a volcanic eruption of messages. “Oh my god, she was actually…” “Katherine was screaming at her in the chat while she was in a body bag.” “This is horrific. She worked herself to death.” Katherine stares at the image for five full minutes. Her hand begins to shake—not with grief, but with a blind, incandescent rage. “Good… very clever, Cassie.” She draws a jagged breath, a cold smirk touching her lips. “Special effects? Makeup? You’re really going this far to humiliate me?” She can’t believe it. Or rather, her ego won't let her. If this is real, she’s a monster. Therefore, it cannot be real. She records a voice note for the entire five hundred-person group. “Everyone stop! This is a hoax. This is a malicious prank by Cassandra to avoid her responsibilities and sabotage this firm. I am going to the morgue right now to expose this lie!” She doesn't even wash her face. She grabs her keys and bolts. On the way, she calls the HR manager. “Meet me there. Bring the termination papers. I’m firing that girl to her face!” Her car screams down the highway. I sit in the passenger seat, watching her white-knuckled grip on the wheel. Mom, slow down. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right there waiting for you. The lobby of the funeral home is hushed, the air smelling of lilies and floor wax. Katherine’s heels clack aggressively against the marble. She storms up to the desk and slams her ID down. “Bring Cassandra Bishop out here!” she demands. “Stop the play-acting! I know this is a setup. Tell her to get out here right now!” The young woman behind the desk looks up, startled, then her expression shifts to one of profound pity and horror. “Ma’am, please keep your voice down. Ms. Bishop was brought in yesterday. We’ve been trying to reach you…” “The body?” Katherine sneers. “Sure. Let’s see it. I want to see exactly how much she spent on a prosthetic corpse.” The HR manager arrives, looking like he wants to melt into the floor. Even he is starting to doubt Katherine’s "prank" theory. The attendant sighs, realizes there’s no arguing with a woman in this state, and leads them back. The hallway is long and frigid. Katherine walks fast, her chin high, a mocking smile plastered on her face. “Keep it up, Cassie. I’m almost impressed. Let’s see the grand finale…” “We’re here.” The attendant stops at a heavy stainless steel door. He hits a switch. The cold hits like a physical wall. Rows of steel drawers line the room. He checks a tag and pulls a handle. Rumble. The drawer slides out. A draped white sheet covers a human form. It is perfectly still. No rise and fall of a chest. Katherine’s lip twitches, but she holds the mask. She steps forward, her finger hovering inches from the sheet before she stops. Her eyes lock onto a hand peeking out from under the fabric. The hand is blue-grey, bloodless. On the wrist is a cheap, red woven string bracelet. It was a freebie from a mall kiosk years ago. Katherine had tossed it at me during a shopping trip because she didn't want it. She’d said, “Here, take this junk. Maybe it’ll keep you from being so clumsy.” I’d worn it for three years. Katherine’s pupils contract. “Get… get up.” Her voice is a thin, rattling thread. Her body begins to vibrate. “Stop it, Cassie. I’m not mad anymore. Just get up.” Silence, save for the hum of the refrigeration units. “I told you to get up!” She grabs the corner of the sheet and rips it back.
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