My Father Called Me a Murderer, So I Died
Language: en
When I was eight years old, my mother lost her life protecting me. My father hated me to the bone. He shipped me off to my uncle’s house, where I stayed for ten miserable years. He only brought me back because his adopted daughter said she felt "lonely." But the very first thing he said to me when I walked through the door was: "You murderer. You killed your mother. How do you even have the nerve to still be alive?" To fulfill his wishes, I died in a car crash on the exact day I received my college acceptance letter. A bystander grabbed my phone from the asphalt and frantically dialed…