Mom You Told Me To Die So I Finally Did

After the diagnosis—the severe clotting disorder, the fragile veins—I became the family’s little ticking clock. They called me their ‘Fragile Prince,’ but it sounded more like an epitaph. The doctors said I wouldn’t make it past five. My parents poured everything into me. Every dollar, every minute, every prayer was for my survival. On my fifth birthday, the house was, for once, loud with forced cheer. Only my younger brother, Noah, too young to grasp the weight of the moment, asked, “Liam, will you die tomorrow?” That was the first time I ever saw Dad hit him. And Mom? She knelt on the floor, weeping, bowing her head again and again, begging God to give me a few more years. But on Noah’s first day of pre-K, I did the unforgivable. I whispered that my chest hurt and asked for a pain pill. Mom snapped. Her control shattered, and she started screaming. She slapped me so hard my head whipped back. “How could you be so sickeningly selfish? Are you trying to kill your brother by stealing his one good day?” “We revolve around you, Liam! Can’t we have just one moment to take him to school?” “If you want to die, just die! Stop torturing us!” She threw the pill bottle at me—a cascade of plastic and white tablets—grabbed Noah’s hand, and slammed the door behind them. I didn’t say a word. I just watched the small cut on my forearm—where a shard of the bottle had nicked me—slowly begin to seep blood. My body was already going cold. 1 The pill bottle fragment had caught my forearm when I threw my hand up. I stared at the cut for two seconds, the doctor’s warning echoing in my head: “Kid, you absolutely cannot get a cut. The bleeding won’t stop.” I scrambled for the Band-Aids. They were soaked through in under a minute. I turned to find a proper gauze bandage, but the blood was already dripping onto the clean tile floor. Mom—Cari—she hated messes. I couldn’t add this to her burden. I panicked, tearing at my sleeve to wipe the floor. But the blood seemed to explode the moment it hit the tile, smearing and spreading with every frantic wipe. I grabbed the nearest hand towel and wrapped it tightly around the wound. The cold started then. Not just the chill of the bathroom, but a deep, systemic cold that traveled from my fingertips to my bones. I stumbled into the bathroom and ran the tub full of the hottest water I could stand. Sliding in, the heat brought a momentary reprieve. The blood was still flowing, staining the clear water a dark rose color. I suddenly needed them. I fumbled with my old cell phone and called Dad’s number. It rang and rang. No answer. I called Mom. The background noise was deafening—music, the high-pitched shriek of children, cheering. It was a party, a world away from my slowly reddening bathwater. “What is it, Liam? Make it fast. Noah’s about to go on stage for the talent show.” “Mom, I don’t feel well. I cut my—” Her impatient voice cut through the noise, sharp and impatient. “Not well again? “Do you only feel unwell when the attention isn’t on you?” “Liam, you’re eight years old. You are a big boy. Can’t you, for once, be considerate?” The dial tone buzzed, loud and empty, in the vast quiet of the bathroom. I watched the water deepen to crimson. She was right. I was nothing but a complication. My illness was a complication, my unhappiness was a complication, and now, my bleeding was a complication. Mom’s favorite knit cardigan lay draped over the edge of the tub. I carefully pulled it over my face. It smelled faintly of her, that comforting, familiar scent of gardenia and laundry soap. It brought me back to when I was little and feverish, and she would watch over me just like this. The water was growing cold. The flow of blood seemed to be slowing, too—maybe it was almost done. As my head started to spin, I wondered if once all the bad blood was gone, I would be better. Then Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to worry about their sickly son. Noah wouldn’t have to concede to his older brother all the time. And I wouldn’t have to be so painfully careful, so constantly good, biting down on the pain every midnight just to avoid making a sound. I curled up in the tub, feeling as safe and calm as if I were back in my mother’s womb. 2 The next time I opened my eyes, I only saw a tiny, pale version of myself floating in the bathtub. So I was already dead. The front door opened. I heard Noah’s voice, bright and full of energy. “Liam, I’m home!” I rushed out. Mom and Dad, Cari and Dan, walked in holding Noah’s hands. Dad carried a store-bought strawberry cake. Dan paused, looking at the mess I’d left in the living room. “What is all this?” Cari frowned. “He was having a tantrum at lunchtime.” “He was mad I was taking Noah to school, so he lied and said he was sick.” Dad’s expression darkened. “He’s getting impossible.” I tried to explain, waving my spectral hands frantically in front of them. “No, it wasn’t intentional! Liam wasn’t trying to make you mad!” My hand passed right through Dan’s shoulder. They felt nothing. Noah broke free and ran to my bedroom door. He tapped lightly. “Liam, come out and have some cake.” Silence. Noah looked up. “Is he asleep?” I wrapped my arms around him in a hug he couldn’t feel. “Thank you, Noah.” Mom’s voice was hard. “He’s not asleep. He’s pouting. “Don’t worry about him. We’re eating first.” Dad put the cake on the dining table. Noah watched with wide, expectant eyes. He whispered, “But I wanted to wait for Liam.” Dad tore open the box and exchanged a look with Mom. “If Liam had even half your common sense, Noah, we’d have a much easier life.” The candles were placed and lit. Noah was lifted onto a chair. Under the warm gaze of his parents, he blew out five flickering flames. It was his fifth birthday, too. Mom asked gently, “Did you make a wish, sweetie?” Noah’s eyes sparkled. “Yes! I wished that Liam—” Dad smiled and ruffled his hair. “Wishes don’t come true if you say them out loud, buddy.” I watched from the side. Every year, my birthday had been steeped in the smell of medicine. The candles felt like a countdown. But Noah’s birthday finally felt like a birthday should. When it was time to cut the cake, Noah insisted on the biggest slice. “This one is for Liam!” He carried the plate to my door and knocked again. “Liam, come share my strawberry cake!” No response. The smile slid slowly from Noah’s face. He walked back to the table. “Liam won’t talk to me.” Dad suddenly reached out, snatching the plate from Noah’s hands. He threw the perfect slice of strawberry cake—Noah’s gift—into the trash can. He slammed his hand on the table, his temper blazing. “Fine! If he won’t eat it, no one calls him again! “He can starve until he learns how to behave.” Noah flinched, his eyes instantly turning red. Mom pulled him into her embrace and shot a sharp look at Dad. “Don’t yell at the kids.” She cooed to Noah. “It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll eat first. When Liam knows he’s done something wrong, he’ll come out.” I knelt by the trash can, gazing at the discarded slice. The strawberries on the cream were so fresh. Now it lay there, mingled with crumpled napkins and coffee grounds. What a waste. Strawberry was my favorite. Noah ate his small slice slowly, glancing toward my closed door every few seconds. Mom and Dad ate in silence. There should have been four places at the table. Now one seat was empty. I floated over and sat in my spot, whispering a soundless Happy Birthday to my little brother. 3 That evening, Mom was bathing Noah. I hovered by the shower curtain, my heart clenching, terrified she would pull it back and see me in the tub. In the cloud of steam, Mom rubbed bubbles onto Noah’s skin. He looked up, his wet hair stuck to his forehead. “Mom, why hasn’t Liam come out yet?” Mom’s hands paused. “He’s probably just tired, sweetie.” Noah murmured, “But I miss him. I haven’t seen him all day.” Mom turned off the water and wrapped him completely in a large towel, pulling him into a hug. “Noah, do you ever get mad at Mom and Dad?” “Mad about what?” Mom held him tighter. “Mad because we’re always focused on Liam? Because we always give him the best things? Because sometimes we forget to give you enough time?” Noah wrapped his small, wet arms around her neck. “No. Why would I? Liam is sick.” “My teacher said that people who are sick need the most help. “I want to help you and Dad take care of him.” Mom’s shoulders began to tremble slightly. She buried her face in his towel, silent for a long moment. “You’re such a good boy, Noah.” She sniffled. “Liam… Liam is very sad, too.” I plastered myself against the cool tile floor, listening as Mom continued. “Your brother was born with a bad heart. The doctors said he might not grow up.” Her voice was thick with tears. “So your dad and I were always terrified he was in pain, terrified he wouldn’t make it. We wanted to give him every good thing we could.” Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “But sometimes… sometimes I get so tired.” “Sometimes I wish he was healthy. Sometimes I wish I could spend more time with you.” Noah listened, not fully understanding, but patting her back with his tiny hand. I was curled up in the corner, tears—transparent and meaningless—falling to the ground. “I’m sorry, Mom. It was my fault,” I sobbed. “If I had never been born, if you only had Noah, everything would be so much better.” They heard nothing. After the bath, Mom tucked Noah into bed. Then she walked to my bedroom door and stood there for a long time. Finally, she raised her hand and knocked gently. “Liam, are you sleeping?” I floated in front of her, trying to reach out, but my fingertips passed through the air. “Mom shouldn’t have yelled at you today. I was wrong.” “It was Noah’s first day of school, and I was so nervous. I wasn’t trying to be mean.” She waited, listening for a response. I couldn’t give her one. Never again. Mom sighed. “I left a slice of cake on the dining room table. It’s your favorite, strawberry. Please eat it.” She stood there for a few more seconds before walking back to the master bedroom. The door closed. I went to the living room and saw the cake on the dining table. It was small, on a simple plate, the strawberry tilted slightly. Late at night, I looked at the little me in the bathtub. The water was completely cold. My face was white as paper. Mom never opened the curtain. She didn’t know that the cake she left was a gift I could never eat. The apology she offered was one I could never hear. 4 I followed Mom into the master bedroom. Dad looked up when she entered. “Did Liam come out?” Mom sat on the bed, folding clothes. She shook her head. “No movement. He’s older now, he has his pride.” Dad took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Liam is miserable, Cari. “He’s never been to school, he barely has any friends. Seeing his brother go off to pre-K—it’s natural he’d be jealous.” “Maybe we should hire him a private tutor?” Mom’s hands froze on a shirt. “A tutor? With what money, Dan? We still owe the hospital from last month’s medicine.” Dad sighed and rolled onto his side. “I’ll start driving for DoorDash after work. A few extra hours a night, we can save up.” Mom turned to look at him. The bedside lamp illuminated his face, the dark circles under his eyes starkly visible. “You’re already exhausted from your day job. That’s too dangerous.” Dad waved a dismissive hand. “I’m fine, I’m strong.” “Just… my shoulder is a little tight lately. Can you put a patch on it?” Dad turned his back. Mom lifted his pajama collar. The skin on his shoulder was red and swollen. I stood by the bed, watching the inflamed skin, and my ghost-tears fell onto the duvet. I used to complain that he came home too late, that he didn’t play with me enough. I never realized that every late night, every hour he spent away, was a direct act of love for me. I flew into his arms, my own invisible, desperate hug. “I’m so sorry, Dad. Please forgive my selfishness.” Mom smoothed on the pain patch. They lay down and turned off the light. I lay down between them, just as I had when I was a toddler. To my left, Mom’s warm, shallow breaths. To my right, Dad’s steady, rhythmic heartbeat. I reached out, wrapping my empty arms around them. In that moment, I felt profoundly happy. The next morning, Mom called us for breakfast. When she passed the dining table, she saw the strawberry cake still on the plate, untouched. The cream had started to sag, the strawberry was wilted. The softness in Mom’s face vanished. She put the plate down and walked to my door. She knocked twice. “Liam Hayes, come out now.” No response. Her eyes began to well up. “I apologized yesterday! What more do you want?” “The cake is still sitting there! Are you on a hunger strike? “Who are you putting on a show for? Are you trying to kill me with stress?” Still silence. Mom’s hand gripped the doorknob. She twisted and pushed the door open. The room was empty. Her face went white. She spun around, a rising panic in her voice. “Dan! Liam is gone!” Dad rushed over, terrified. “What? Don’t panic. He must be somewhere in the house.” Then, Noah’s voice piped up. “Mom, Liam is playing in the water in your bathroom.” I panicked, too. I screamed at Noah. “Noah, stop! Don’t let Mom see me!” But Noah couldn’t hear me. He ran into the bathroom and pulled the shower curtain all the way back. Mom let out a huge sigh of relief. “Liam, that is too much! You have really made me angry this time!” The next second, she saw me, floating in the dark red water.