"Smile for the Camera," My Abuser Said

§PROLOGUE

The first time I died, it was for my family.

The fall was surprisingly quiet, a rush of wind and a final, sickening thud.

My niece, Daisy, the girl I had practically raised, watched from the balcony, her eyes red-rimmed and cold.

She had just pushed me.

And my family, the people I had drained my bank account and my soul for, would tell the police I slipped.

§01

I gasped, my lungs burning as if I’d just surfaced from icy water.

The scent of cheap vanilla frosting and warm bodies filled the air.

Laughter, bright and oblivious, echoed around me.

I was standing in a rented party hall, decorated with pink and gold balloons.

My sister-in-law, Crystal, held up her one-year-old daughter like a trophy.

"Isn't my little Daisy just precious in her 'toddler-chic' outfit?" she cooed to the room of relatives.

Daisy, my niece, was stuffed into a tiny, tight tube top and a micro-mini skirt that barely covered her diaper.

A lace garter was strapped around her chubby thigh, leaving an angry red mark.

This was Daisy's first birthday party.

The same party that happened nineteen years before my murder.

I was back.

§02

Crystal shifted Daisy onto her hip and strutted towards me.

Her brand-new iPhone 15 Pro Max in Natural Titanium, nestled in a cheap but flashy glitter case from Amazon, was ready in her other hand.

"Gwen, you're the college girl," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "You get it, right? Freedom of expression starts young."

She shoved the baby into my arms.

"Tell everyone what you think."

In my first life, I had gently removed the lace garter, wrapped Daisy in my soft cardigan, and lectured Crystal on comfort and safety for children.

That lecture had marked me as "jealous" and "old-fashioned," the beginning of two decades of being their enemy.

This time, I looked down at the red mark on Daisy's leg.

I smiled.

"Of course," I said, my voice smooth as silk. "You have to start them early."

I looked directly into Crystal’s eyes.

"After all, you don't want her to lose out at the starting line."

§03

After the party, my mother, Helen, cornered me in the hallway of the family home.

"Gwen," she hissed, her fingers digging into my wrist. "From now on, you're in charge of Daisy's clothes."

It was the same line, the same tactic as before.

Last time, I saw it as a sign of trust.

I had spent years meticulously choosing every soft, cotton onesie, every breathable sock, making sure every seam was perfect.

All on my part-time student budget.

Later, when I was unemployed and eating instant noodles, they posted photos of Daisy in a new dress with the caption: "Thanks for the gift, Auntie Gwen!"

I texted my brother, Kevin: "Can I borrow two hundred dollars for rent?"

The message was read.

And ignored.

Three minutes later, a voice message from my mother arrived: "Your unemployment check should be coming soon, right? Daisy needs a new recital dress..."

The memory was a spike of pain in my temple.

"Mom," I said, slowly prying her fingers from my arm. "My entire wardrobe is from Shein's $9.99 section. What do I know about 'toddler-chic'?"

Her face fell, the mask of maternal concern crumbling into shock.

She was used to the endless well of my compliance.

"But your brother's salary all goes to the mortgage..." she stammered.

I let out a small, sharp laugh.

"Kevin's Marlboro Golds cost twenty dollars a pack," I said softly. "Crystal's weekly manicure could cover my groceries for a month."

"A child's style reflects her mother's taste," I continued, my smile never wavering. "Crystal has such amazing taste. We shouldn't interfere."

The hallway fell silent.

She turned away, her stooped back like a rusty scythe.

This time, that scythe would never touch me again.

§04

Legitimate children's brands didn't make "toddler-chic" clothes.

So, Crystal bought them from sketchy online stores, manufactured in sweatshops with non-existent quality control.

The inevitable phone call came on a Tuesday evening.

"Gwen! You have to come back! Daisy's covered in a rash, she won't stop crying!" My mother's voice was a shrill panic.

Whenever Daisy got sick, I was their designated driver, their medical interpreter, their emergency fund.

They claimed they didn't even know how to schedule an appointment at an urgent care clinic.

This time, I calmly muted the TV and popped a cherry into my mouth.

It was sweet.

In my past life, I couldn't even afford discounted, bruised apples from the supermarket.

All my spare cash went into Daisy's co-pays and prescriptions.

Money they never paid back.

"Mom, she's sick, she needs a doctor," I said calmly. "I'm not a doctor."

"We don't know any of this stuff!" she shrieked. "You have to come take her!"

My brother's roar erupted in the background. "Stop wasting time with her! Gwen, get your ass back here now!"

I looked at the bowl of freshly washed cherries on my coffee table, glistening like tiny rubies.

"Sorry, Kevin," I said, my voice feigning static. "I'm out of town for work. Can't... hear you... signal's bad."

I hung up.

§05

They called again and again.

I put my phone on Do Not Disturb.

Eventually, they took a rash-covered, screaming Daisy to the emergency room themselves.

The diagnosis was no surprise: severe contact dermatitis from chemical irritants in the clothing.

"These fabrics are full of formaldehyde, the dyes are toxic," the ER doctor said, his brow furrowed. "Any longer and she could have permanent scarring."

Crystal snatched the discharge papers from his hand.

"That's bullshit! This online store has a 4.9-star rating!" she yelled. "You're just trying to run up the bill with extra tests!"

She plopped Daisy into her stroller, pulled out her iPhone, and started recording a video for her Instagram story.

"You guys, can you believe this? Now hospitals are trying to police a woman's right to choose... her child's clothing!"

The camera panned down to Daisy's swollen, red legs.

"Look at our little fashionista's 'toddler-chic' look! These old fossils just don't get it..."

In the video, which was later forwarded to the family WhatsApp group, Daisy frantically clawed at the cheap lace bow tied around her neck.

I closed the app.

The moonlight outside my window was beautiful, making the bowl of cherries on my table sparkle.

§06

As soon as Daisy could walk, Crystal decided it was time to "cultivate her presence."

"You have to start them on heels by three, or they'll never have an elegant walk!" she declared in the family group chat.

She spammed the chat with links from a boutique website called 'Sparkle Princess.'

Dozens of tiny, rhinestone-encrusted "children's high heels" filled my screen.

The lowest heel was two inches.

The most expensive pair was a staggering $300.

My mother immediately private-messaged me the link to the $300 pair.

"Gwen, Daisy's birthday is coming up. A little gift from her favorite aunt?"

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