When I woke, I was in a pristine white room, tubes snaking across my body.
Painfully, I lifted my arm, grabbed the breathing mask strapped to my face, and ripped it off.
Finally. It was ending.
The heart monitor screamed. Staff rushed in, hands pressing, machines whirring.
Their movements were frantic, but I felt nothing.
My body grew impossibly light, drifting up from the bed, pulled toward somewhere unknown.
Old people say the dead return home.
But my soul didn't go home.
It drifted to an unfamiliar villa in a wealthy part of the city.
A luxury van idled at the entrance. The driver opened the passenger door.
A painfully familiar figure stepped out.
Dad.
Dad—who always wore threadbare work clothes—was dressed in an expensive suit.
The villa door opened. A girl in her twenties walked out, looking exactly like me.
She hooked her arm through his. "Daddy, everyone's ready. We're just waiting for you!"
Daddy?
Did Dad have another daughter?
My soul followed them inside.
Pristine white carpet. Blinding luxury. And...
Mom.
My mother—who had been "bedridden" year-round—was draped in glittering jewelry.