Chapter 1 · Hated In The Shadow Of My Sister

The last time I called my father, he took forever to answer, just as I expected.

When he finally answered, his voice was curt. "What is it?"

I could hear the loud and festive music in the background. Then Mira's voice rang out, sweet and excited, "I've got a new aunt again!"

There was a pause before he spoke again, like he'd just remembered I was on the line. "I got remarried today. I sent you a text."

I blinked at his words, wondering if anyone even checks their text messages anymore.

After a moment, he added, "If you want to come, I'll have the driver pick you up. You're not too late for the ceremony."

I closed my eyes as consciousness threatened to fade. The cold had already crept into my fingertips.

Everything felt numb, and I could barely catch my breath. Still, somehow, a bitter smile tugged at the corner of my lips. "It's too late, Dad. Too late," I whispered.

"I'm dying."

The sharp crack of something shattering echoed in my ears as the cheerful music in the background came to an abrupt halt.

Then came the jagged sound of uneven, angry breathing, followed by my father's voice, low and furious, "You're lying again. You've always been that girl who cried wolf, ever since you were a child."

I blinked, startled, as a familiar figure appeared before me. It was my mother, smiling softly and waving at me.

I drew in a few shallow breaths, forcing air into my lungs. Summoning what little strength I had left, I whispered into the phone, "Dad. Congratulations on the wedding. Your gift should arrive in a few days."

Finally, the day has come.

Dad, when my death certificate arrives in your hands, will it bring you a smile?

That troublesome daughter of yours is finally gone.

I closed my eyes and reached toward my mother's waiting hand.

My short life flickered through my mind, frame by frame, all in black and white. Then, as the reel reached the year I turned eight, color bloomed. And just as suddenly, it froze.

In the haze of fading consciousness, I let out a soft sigh as I watched my younger self, so radiant and so innocent.

A younger version of me played before my eyes, beaming as she made her way to pick up my cousin, Mira Jones, blissfully unaware of what was about to unfold.

It was Mira's birthday that day.

The day before, her parents had finalized their divorce. She'd called me, crying her heart out, saying her father wouldn't celebrate her birthday with her anymore.

So I wanted to bring her home with me. I thought maybe my father could give her a birthday worth remembering.

He didn't hesitate.

My father had always been close to his sister, Mira's mother. Naturally, he was happy to see Mira and me getting along.

I remembered riding in my mother's car to pick them up.

The sun was brilliant that day. I wore a floral dress with tiny butterflies on it—a gift from my father.

Mira's father never really paid attention to her. Unlike me, she didn't have many pretty dresses.

She looked at me and said, "Summer, you're such a lucky girl."

And I believed it. I really thought I was.

My name is Summer Hart, a name my father gave me.

He once told me he wanted me to be full of warmth and light, like the golden days of summer people long for.

But when he gave me that name, he never imagined I'd be the one to slip into eternal night long before him.

The scene flashed back to when Mira and I were in the car, sitting in the back, sipping milk while my mother drove. But Mira suddenly started crying softly.

Thinking she must be missing her father, I reached over to comfort her while trying to grab a tissue.

Just as I settled back into my seat, I noticed Mira's hand moving behind her, quickly and quietly.

Moments later, a sharp cramp twisted through my stomach.

It must be my lactose intolerance acting up again.

My stomach cramped so badly that cold sweat had gathered on my forehead. I kept begging my mother to stop somewhere to find a restroom.

The pain made me frantic. I pleaded and pushed, and eventually, she panicked too.

Now that I'm older, I think about that day all the time. If I could live it again, I wouldn't have taken a single sip of goat milk.

No, I wouldn't have suggested inviting Mira to our house at all.

But I can't turn back time, undo what's been done, or stop the car behind us from speeding recklessly and driving drunk.

I couldn't change anything.

All I could do was replay the crash in my mind repeatedly, constantly remembering the sickening crunch of impact, the metallic scent of blood, and Mira's desperate scream. "Mom."

Chapter 1

The last time I called my father, he took forever to answer, just as I expected.

When he finally answered, his voice was curt. "What is it?"

I could hear the loud and festive music in the background. Then Mira's voice rang out, sweet and excited, "I've got a new aunt again!"

There was a pause before he spoke again, like he'd just remembered I was on the line. "I got remarried today. I sent you a text."

I blinked at his words, wondering if anyone even checks their text messages anymore.

After a moment, he added, "If you want to come, I'll have the driver pick you up. You're not too late for the ceremony."

I closed my eyes as consciousness threatened to fade. The cold had already crept into my fingertips.

Everything felt numb, and I could barely catch my breath. Still, somehow, a bitter smile tugged at the corner of my lips. "It's too late, Dad. Too late," I whispered.

"I'm dying."

The sharp crack of something shattering echoed in my ears as the cheerful music in the background came to an abrupt halt.

Then came the jagged sound of uneven, angry breathing, followed by my father's voice, low and furious, "You're lying again. You've always been that girl who cried wolf, ever since you were a child."

I blinked, startled, as a familiar figure appeared before me. It was my mother, smiling softly and waving at me.

Finally, the day has come.

Dad, when my death certificate arrives in your hands, will it bring you a smile?

That troublesome daughter of yours is finally gone.

I closed my eyes and reached toward my mother's waiting hand.

My short life flickered through my mind, frame by frame, all in black and white. Then, as the reel reached the year I turned eight, color bloomed. And just as suddenly, it froze.

In the haze of fading consciousness, I let out a soft sigh as I watched my younger self, so radiant and so innocent.

A younger version of me played before my eyes, beaming as she made her way to pick up my cousin, Mira Jones, blissfully unaware of what was about to unfold.

It was Mira's birthday that day.

The day before, her parents had finalized their divorce. She'd called me, crying her heart out, saying her father wouldn't celebrate her birthday with her anymore.

So I wanted to bring her home with me. I thought maybe my father could give her a birthday worth remembering.

He didn't hesitate.

My father had always been close to his sister, Mira's mother. Naturally, he was happy to see Mira and me getting along.

I remembered riding in my mother's car to pick them up.

The sun was brilliant that day. I wore a floral dress with tiny butterflies on it—a gift from my father.

Mira's father never really paid attention to her. Unlike me, she didn't have many pretty dresses.

She looked at me and said, "Summer, you're such a lucky girl."

And I believed it. I really thought I was.

My name is Summer Hart, a name my father gave me.

He once told me he wanted me to be full of warmth and light, like the golden days of summer people long for.

But when he gave me that name, he never imagined I'd be the one to slip into eternal night long before him.

The scene flashed back to when Mira and I were in the car, sitting in the back, sipping milk while my mother drove. But Mira suddenly started crying softly.

Thinking she must be missing her father, I reached over to comfort her while trying to grab a tissue.

Just as I settled back into my seat, I noticed Mira's hand moving behind her, quickly and quietly.

Moments later, a sharp cramp twisted through my stomach.

It must be my lactose intolerance acting up again.

My stomach cramped so badly that cold sweat had gathered on my forehead. I kept begging my mother to stop somewhere to find a restroom.

The pain made me frantic. I pleaded and pushed, and eventually, she panicked too.

Now that I'm older, I think about that day all the time. If I could live it again, I wouldn't have taken a single sip of goat milk.

No, I wouldn't have suggested inviting Mira to our house at all.

But I can't turn back time, undo what's been done, or stop the car behind us from speeding recklessly and driving drunk.

I couldn't change anything.

All I could do was replay the crash in my mind repeatedly, constantly remembering the sickening crunch of impact, the metallic scent of blood, and Mira's desperate scream. "Mom."