After I Died, My Mother Began to Love Me

My mother doesn't love me. I always thought it was because she was so busy at work and didn't know how to express her emotions that she was so indifferent to me. But when I had no money to call her while I was in the hospital, she was happily hosting a birthday party for my eighteen-year-old cousin. I begged her on the phone: "I will definitely pay you back the money. If I don't do the operation, I will die." But she educated me seriously and indifferently: "Didn't I just pay you the living expenses this month? You learned to lie at a young age. A child like you who talks nonsense will die when you die." Later, I died in a dark and damp rental house. My mother, who had been slandering me all her life, turned gray overnight.