I did not find out immediately because no one thought to confirm whether I was actually alive. I discovered my own death three years later through a forwarded social media post from an old classmate who sounded confused and apologetic. The message simply said, “Is this you?” and attached was a photograph of a printed memorial program featuring my senior portrait.
Below my smiling face were the words “In Loving Memory,” and the caption stated that I had passed away at twenty two years old. I was twenty two when I saw it, sitting on the floor of a cramped basement apartment in Oakland, eating instant noodles and teaching myself programming on a broken laptop held together with tape and determination.
I stared at that image until everything blurred, and a cold emptiness settled in my chest that never truly left. That was the moment I stopped thinking of myself as their daughter, and that was the moment something inside me hardened permanently. I did not cry or scream because I simply closed the laptop and went back to work, since dead people do not get second chances unless they build something new.