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Before I died, my parents would scold me every single day. Mom always blamed me for holding back her career advancement. "If I hadn't gotten pregnant with you by accident, I would've been the department director ages ago," she said. Dad always blamed me for his business failures. "Ever since you were born, everything I invest in just goes down the drain. You're nothing but bad luck," he complained. They only ever loved my older sister, saying she was just like them—bookish, quiet, and gentle. But me? I was like some wild, unruly child, always jumping around, getting into fights, and making them lose face. "This unwanted, useless burden. If only we'd aborted her back then, our family would be perfect," my parents always sighed. In the end, I really did die, just like they always wanted.