Chapter 1

Patrick Monroe took me to a party hosted by a beautiful lady named Caroline Bishop.

While eating a piece of cake, I bit into a cherry hidden in the filling and immediately spit it out.

I had once nearly died from breaking out in hives after eating cherries, so even at my young age, I knew that taste too well.

Caroline looked disappointed and said, “Just like finding a coin in a New Year’s pastry for good luck, I hid a cherry in the mini cake as a special treat. I didn’t think Charlie would be so ungrateful.”

Before I could explain, Dad shoved me outside into the yard as punishment.

Mom always told me that with the temperature over 100 degrees, I should stay indoors and not run around.

So this is what hot weather feels like.

My skin felt itchy, and it was getting hard to breathe.

I wanted to find Dad, but no matter how much I knocked, he wouldn’t open the door.

Through the glass patio doors, I saw him glance coldly at me before looking away, refusing to let me back inside.

When Mom found me using the GPS on her smartwatch, I was lying on the ground, my skin covered in red, itchy hives.

Dad was nearby, still muttering, “Your son is just spoiled by you! No manners at all, spitting food on the table when there’s a trash can right there. Can’t even accept a simple gesture. He’s just like you...”

Mom, furious, slapped Dad and then scooped me up and ran to the hospital.

I hovered above, watching everything unfold quietly.

I hated Dad.

He never cared about Mom or me.

Yes, I was dead.

So this is what death feels like. Was old Mr. Thompson next door floating like this when he passed last year?

I didn’t see him then, so could it be that Mom and Dad can’t see me now?

But I could see them.

I watched Mom holding me, crying desperately as she waited for an ambulance.

Then she pleaded with the doctor to save me.

The doctor stared at a screen and sighed. Three flat lines, perfectly still.

Mom rushed around, doing everything by herself, as I watched “me” being wheeled into a small chamber.

Later, a man handed Mom a small urn.

She sat on the curb, clutching that urn and staring blankly at the traffic until night fell and she finally went home.

In bed, she would sob into her pillow or stare at the ceiling in silence.

I lay beside her, trying to pat her like she used to do when she put me to bed.

But I could only watch as my hand passed right through her.

I screamed, startled, but Mom didn’t react.

She lay there, unmoving, so I got up and walked to the half-finished building blocks we’d been playing with.

I tried to finish building it, but my hand went right through the pieces.

I tried turning on the TV to watch cartoons, but that didn’t work either.

So I went back to the bed to lie next to Mom. At least being there in silence wasn’t so bad.

But wasn’t Mom hungry?

She didn’t get up to eat.

I missed Mom’s honey-glazed chicken wings!

But I was dead, which meant I’d never have them again.

I counted to the third day, and Mom finally got up.

She looked at her phone. No messages.

I was dead, and despite Mom’s sadness, Dad hadn’t called even once.

Do other dads act like this too?

I watched as Mom took a stack of papers from her nightstand.

I recognized the big words at the top: Divorce Agreement.

That document had been in her nightstand for as long as I could remember. She’d often glance at it, then look at me, and put it back.

Finally, Dad came home.

He stormed into the living room and began yelling, “Your son is so rude! Caroline put so much thought into hiding that cherry in the cake—it was a sign of good luck—and he just spit it out! Then he learned to complain to you when I made him stand outside!”

“And you! That was Caroline’s house! She asked why you were there, and you didn’t even answer before barging in and pushing her!”

“Can’t you act civil? Did you know Caroline fell and cut her hand because of you?”

Mom listened, expressionless, maybe because his words couldn’t hurt her anymore.

Ever since Caroline had reappeared in our lives, Dad had grown increasingly impatient with Mom, saying things that hurt her deeply.

I wanted to tell him, “I’m already dead. Isn’t that enough of an apology to Caroline? Can you stop blaming Mom now?”