My throat felt scraped raw. My head pounded in heavy pulses. When I tried to shift, pain shot through my ribs so fiercely it stole my breath. The ceiling lights blurred above me like halos I hadn’t earned.
A doctor stepped in, clipboard tucked against his chest. His smile looked practiced.
“You were in a highway accident near Joliet,” he said gently. “Severe collision. You had identification on you, but your phone was destroyed. We contacted your emergency contacts.”
Emergency contacts.
My parents.
The last time I’d seen them was in their Naperville kitchen. My mother’s lips thin with disappointment. My father staring past me like I was already gone.
Don’t come back unless you’re bringing something useful.
The nurse helped me sip water. Her hand trembled slightly.
“Your family already came,” she said quietly.
I blinked. “Came? When?”
“Two days ago,” she whispered. “They identified… a body.”
My stomach dropped into nothingness.
“A body?” I croaked.
The doctor inhaled slowly. “There was another victim in the crash. Similar build. Similar hair. Facial trauma. Your parents insisted it was you.”
I stared at him.
“But I’m alive.”
The nurse looked away.
“We tried calling them again when you stabilized,” she continued softly. “Your mother answered. She said…” The nurse hesitated, then forced it out. “‘She’s useless.’”
My fingers went cold.
“And your father,” she added, “said, ‘This is the only way she’ll ever pay us back.’”
Something inside me stopped shaking.
They hadn’t been mistaken.
They had chosen this.
After the doctor left, the nurse leaned closer, lowering her voice. “There’s an insurance investigator asking questions. A life insurance policy.”
“How much?” I asked, though I already knew.
“One million dollars.”
A million.
It explained the speed. The certainty. The coldness disguised as grief.
The next day, I forced myself upright. Every movement burned, but I needed proof.
The nurse brought me a phone.
My social media was covered in black ribbons. Sympathy messages. Prayers.
My mother had written a long post about tragic loss and unwavering devotion.
My father had commented beneath it:
She’s finally at peace.
Then I found the funeral announcement.
Saturday. Two p.m. Private viewing. Naperville chapel.
They’d chosen a photo of me at sixteen—smiling obediently, the way they always preferred.
I stared at that image until something hardened in my chest.
They were going to bury me.
Collect their money.
And stand there pretending to mourn.
So I made a decision.
If they wanted a funeral—
I would give them one.
And I would walk into it alive.
