Chapter 1
I was born the year my brother, Taylor Summers, took his own life.
I dropped dead just ten minutes before I was supposed to step onto the stage and make his dream come true.
On my phone, a string of sixty-second voice messages from my mother, Helen Lewis, kept playing.
In the living room, relatives had gathered around the TV, waiting eagerly to watch my performance.
Several relatives who couldn't attend sent messages in the family group chat, all praising Helen for raising such a remarkable child.
Helen's face lit up with a proud, wrinkled smile.
"My Taylor was always the sweetest, the most obedient. Making it to World of Dance? That is our shared dream."
I hovered above, watching paramedics work on my body below.
All I could whisper into the silent air was, "I'm sorry, Mom. In the end, I still let you down."
*****
Only ten minutes left until showtime.
Helen's long voice messages and videos were crammed into the chat, flooding the screen.
I hit play, and the app froze up out of nowhere.
My heart clenched tight. Not replying to Helen right away was unforgivable—the worst thing ever. Helen would worry herself sick if I didn't answer her.
Before I could move, a sharp, crushing pain exploded behind my ribs, as if a fist had clenched my heart.
My breath turned ragged, then vanished. The world dissolved into a white haze.
I tried to scream for help. Nothing came out.
My body went limp, and I slumped in front of the makeup mirror.
In that final flicker of awareness, the screen still glowed with her texts.
One read: [Why aren't you replying? Call me right now!]
A second read: [My Taylor is always so thoughtful. You'd never leave me hanging. You must be busy, right? Don't worry, Mom gets it.]
Then the third: [The whole family is waiting. I even baked your favorite cake for the celebration!]
Just seeing that word "cake" made my stomach twist and turn, leaving me feeling sick.
I didn't even like cake, and I couldn't eat it.
Dancing meant I had to be super strict with my diet.
And Helen had been controlling every bite I ate for as long as I could remember.
Every portion was measured to the exact gram, down to two decimal places.
Never a bite more, never less.
When I was ten, my best friend was having a birthday party.
I begged Helen for ages before she finally let me go, but she made it crystal clear: I wasn't allowed to eat anything at all.
At the party, everyone was laughing and having fun around the cake.
The sweet scent of frosting hung in the air. I couldn't resist—I stole a tiny taste.
It was the first time in my life I'd ever tasted something so sweet and fluffy.
Instinctively, I grabbed another piece. Later, I even played games with everyone.
That half day was pure happiness.
I was so happy that I forgot to rinse my mouth before going home.
When Helen found out I'd eaten cake, her hand clamped around my throat, and she exploded, unleashing a torrent of furious insults.
Then she dialed my friend's mom, her voice shrill as she started ranting.
"You're just jealous of Taylor's talent! You did this on purpose, trying to mess her up! If anything happens to her, I'll make your whole family pay! Feed your own kid whatever junk you want, but don't poison mine!"
Her words were pure venom, sharp enough to cut.
Even after my friend's mom hung up, Helen wouldn't let it go. She kept calling back, hurling insults again and again.
Finally, she hurled her phone aside and turned to glare at me.
I was completely stunned, frozen in place.
That look still crept me out, even now.
"Why won't you listen to me? I love you more than anything. Would I ever hurt you? Come here, now!"
She dragged me to the bathroom, forced my jaw open, and poured a large mouthful of olive oil down my throat.
Then her fingers pushed deep, making me gag.
I vomited until I was hollow, collapsing on the floor—a trembling, pathetic mess.
Helen took a photo and sent it to my friend's mother with a cold caption. From that day on, I could never eat cake again.
*****
When I came to, I found myself floating in mid-air.
A handful of ghostly figures drifted around me, all just as see-through as I was.
We studied one another.
"Hey, newbie, your mom sure keeps tabs on you, huh..." one of them said.
I straightened up, feeling a bit proud. "Yeah, my mom's the best!"
She was just a little strict, but honestly, she was really good to me.
A pale boy, almost fading away, drifted silently behind me, saying nothing.
It was my coach who found me and called the ambulance.
As they lifted me onto the stretcher, my phone remained clutched in my hand.
The screen kept lighting up, packed with Mom's messages—each one full of nagging and questions.
One read: [Why isn't it your turn yet, Taylor? Message me back!]
Another one read: [If I'd known, I would've picked an earlier slot. Everyone's getting impatient.]
A third one read: [You're not even on stage yet, so why aren't you replying? I'm getting worried about you!]
This was her pattern. If she couldn't reach me, her anxiety would spiral into a depressive episode.
So afraid I might need her and not find her, she had blocked every number in my phone except her own.
Now, suspended in the air, I was frantic.
Again and again, I tried to slip back into my body, only to pass straight through.
"Cardiac arrest! Get the defibrillator! No heartbeat! Hit her with the epinephrine!"
Shock after shock hit my body. Floating above, I watched as my body jerked up from the table, only to slam back down onto the icy surface.
My coach was holding my phone, the screen still lit up.
Helen sent another message: [Taylor Summers! This is your last warning. Reply to me right now!]
Attached was a picture of her wrist, blood everywhere.
Helen had slit her wrist again.