Chapter 1My Husband Does Not Know I Am Dead

I shattered my spine jumping in front of the truck to save my son.

Just like that, a Principal Dancer was reduced to a prisoner in a chair.

I tore up all my leotards and costumes, hurling every medal against the wall until the plaster cracked.

My son, Sam, clung to the wheel of my chair, sobbing.

“It’s my fault, Mom.”

“Please, Mom, yell at me, hit me, but stop doing this to yourself, okay?”

I tried to slit my wrists with a pair of manicure scissors once. My husband, Rhys, pinned me down, his face pale and desperate.

“If you leave, what about Sam and me?”

After that, Sam brought me water, fed me, and told me about his school day, sitting right next to my chair the moment he got home.

Rhys massaged my stiff legs every night and brewed traditional herbal soups until late.

I learned to hoist myself up using my arms, leaning on the table, and slowly, the wheelchair became my legs.

I thought this was my second chance at life.

Until that day. The day I heard them talking, father and son.

“I’m turning into a full-time nursemaid, serving her every day! The kids at school laugh that I have a paralyzed hag for a mother.”

Rhys sighed, his voice heavy with agreement.

“She’s dragging us down every single day. Honestly, it might have been better if she had just died back then.”

“If she had died, you wouldn’t be weighed down by guilt and shame, and I wouldn’t have to waste my life away in this endless, miserable routine.”

I wiped my dry eyes and wheeled myself onto the balcony.

* * *

In the few seconds of my fall from the twenty-second floor, I was back on stage.

Spinning. Leaping. The perfect landing.

The wind roared past my ears, sounding exactly like the audience’s thunderous applause.

My soul slowly drifted upward, then floated back to the balcony.

The wheelchair that had been my constant companion for eight years stood empty.

The house was quiet, too quiet.

Both bedroom doors were closed, just like every day for the past eight years.

Sam said he needed his own space.

Rhys said I shouldn’t make every corner of the house feel so oppressive.

So, behind those closed doors were worlds that belonged exclusively to them.

I understood. I never intruded.

But now, I was dead.

I just wanted to see Sam one last time. Just a glimpse.

With no physical barrier, I glided right through the door.

Sam was looking at his phone, a slight smile on his lips, a look of unburdened ease I hadn’t seen in ages.

He was video chatting with a friend. He looked happy.

“Is your mom really a Principal Dancer? That’s so cool!”

Sam’s smile froze.

“The pretty lady who picks you up sometimes? She has such great style.”

Sam’s eyes darkened, and he nodded.

Since the accident, I hadn't been able to take him to or from school.

It had always been Rhys’s executive assistant, Kinsley Tate.

A sharp pang of hurt hit me, but I immediately dismissed it.

If Kinsley Tate could step in and be a competent wife and mother in my place, perhaps it would be better for everyone.

Sam ended the call and opened his notebook.

“I really wish Ms. Tate was my mom.”

Tears blurred the ink on the page.

I reached out to stroke his hair, but my palm passed right through him.

Oh, you poor, foolish child. Your wish is about to come true.

Now, you won’t have to feel ashamed of having a crippled mother.

You won’t have to live with guilt and self-blame forever.

From now on, you can proudly tell the world that your mother is wonderful and beautiful.

The bond between a mother and son must be real; he seemed to sense something, whispering softly.

“Mom, I’m sorry.”

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, holding him tight.

It’s okay, sweetheart. This isn’t your fault. This was my choice.

From the moment I ran onto the street to save you, I never once regretted it.

Floating out of Sam’s room, I saw the light on in the master bedroom.

Rhys was working, a stack of files on his desk.

Since my paralysis, he’d been working mostly from home.

People at the company whispered that I was his burden, the anchor dragging him down.

But he never gave up on me during my darkest days; he endured for eight years.

He was tired. It was time to give him his freedom back.

I gently traced the lines around his eyes, wanting to smooth away his frown.

His phone buzzed. It was Kinsley.

“Rhys, Sera Miller is your obligation, not your love.”

“But can you be true to yourself tonight?”

He paused.

“It’s my birthday.”

He stared at the screen for a long time, then finally typed a single word: “Okay.”

He stood up, quickly tidied his jacket.

As he reached the door, he glanced toward the balcony.

“Sera, I have an emergency at the office. I’ll be back late.”

I wasn’t overly sad.

Over the past eight years, I had grown accustomed to Kinsley’s presence in his life.

In my secret heart, I had already designated her as my husband’s future wife and my son’s future mother.