Chapter 4After My Tragic Death, Dad Kept Working And Doing Extra For Everyone

Dad and Carla had something short-lived once, nearly going through with a plan to leave together.

I remember when Mom and Dad were always fighting, and he’d come home later and later.

Carla was one of his regulars at Quick Bites, always seeming to know just how to get his attention.

Once, I overheard them planning a future, each word a sharp sting in my heart.

“Let’s just get a divorce. I won’t let him hurt you again,” Dad had said, his voice low and determined.

Carla’s voice dripped with charm and anticipation, “Yes, we’ll finally be free.”

I hid behind the door, tears blurring my vision.

I hated Dad, hated that he wanted to leave me and Mom to chase after his happiness.

I hated Carla, hated her for trying to destroy my family.

And, somewhere in me, I hated Mom, too, for being too weak to keep Dad’s attention.

But then, in the rain one night, Mom’s life came to an abrupt end.

Dad and Carla’s plans crumbled, and he chose to stay, raising me on his own.

He cut ties with Carla, filling his life only with endless deliveries and a child he resented.

Some nights, he’d sit alone with a drink, calling me his “deadweight,” cursing that I couldn’t grow up faster.

And I, after losing Mom, closed myself off, rebelling against him at every turn.

I ignored his concern, meeting it with coldness and defiance, as if punishing him would heal the pain.

Then came the night that sealed my fate.

I don’t know how Dad found his way into that dark basement.

He stood there, staring at my battered body, unmoving.

After a long time, he draped a jacket over me, covering my broken form.

He didn’t wail or cry; every movement was calm, mechanical.

I thought, maybe he felt freed, relieved of the burden I’d always been.

Maybe he’d go back to Carla, start a new life, chase that vision he’d once had.

Maybe… he’d be happier without me.

Dad never went back to the police. Maybe he hated them for refusing to file a report at first, telling him he’d have to wait 48 hours.

Instead, he brought me home, tucking me into the big freezer in the middle of the room.

He gently wiped my face with a towel, murmuring, “Wait for me, Lily. Dad’ll be right here.”

And he threw himself into his work, delivering day and night.

Until, finally, he found every last person who’d hurt me.

Dad brought cigarettes for everyone at Quick Bites, trading every delivery in Maplewood Terrace for himself.

He became silent, delivering more orders than ever, hunting for any hint of who was behind my death.

One evening, Dad made his usual rounds, delivering food and politely asking customers if they had trash he could take downstairs.