Three Days After I Was Murdered, My Sister, Who Had Been Dead for Five Years, Returns

Just because I didn't answer the three calls my older sister made when she jumped off a cliff,

my parents decided I was the murderer who had killed her.

From then on, every day, they wished I had been the one to die.

After my mother's enemy kidnapped me, he gave me two chances to make a phone call.

I called my mother, a forensic pathologist, first, but she impatiently hung up.

"You say you've been kidnapped, and the kidnapper even lets you call me for help? A liar like you doesn't deserve to be my daughter!"

I called my father, a doctor, next. He didn't answer, but half an hour later, he finally sent me a cold text.

"Didn't you know I was in surgery all morning? Handle it yourself. Stop calling me every day, acting like you're about to die."

Dad was right. I really was about to die.

Maybe only after I died would they be willing to forgive me.

That would be fine, too.

But later, when my older sister suddenly came home after being gone for five years, they went mad looking for me.