My Mother Killed Me. I Came Back to Watch Her Fall

§PROLOGUE

The last thing I saw was my mother’s face.

It was a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred, illuminated by the blinding glare of headlights.

The squeal of tires on asphalt was the soundtrack to my final moments, a piercing shriek that tore through the night.

Then came the impact.

A horrific symphony of crunching metal and shattering bone.

My body was a rag doll, thrown into the air with violent indifference.

For a suspended moment, there was no pain, only a strange, floating calm as the world tumbled around me.

Then, through the spiderweb cracks of the windshield, I saw her again.

Her expression wasn't one of shock or regret.

It was… satisfaction.

As my world faded to black, a single, venomous phrase she had screamed echoed in the void.

“You deserve to die, you ungrateful bitch!”

§01

I woke up with a gasp, my own scream caught in my throat.

My sheets were soaked, plastered to my skin with a cold, slick sweat.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, frantic and wild.

The phantom pain of the impact still radiated through my limbs, a chilling echo of a death I had somehow survived.

Slowly, my ragged breathing evened out.

I took in the familiar sight of my bedroom: the pale moonlight filtering through the blinds, the stack of law books on my nightstand, the faint scent of lavender from the diffuser.

I was alive. I was whole. I was safe.

It was a dream. A terrifyingly vivid nightmare.

Just as the thought began to soothe my frayed nerves, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A jolt of ice-cold dread shot through me, so potent it felt like a physical blow.

I knew that buzz. I knew that exact timing.

My hand trembled as I reached for the phone. The screen lit up, displaying a notification from my boss at the law firm.

“Clara, we’ve just taken on a new plaintiff. The firm has assigned you as her counsel.”

Simultaneously, another call came in. An unknown number.

My blood ran cold.

This wasn’t a dream. This was a memory.

A memory of the day my life ended, playing out again, beat for horrifying beat.

Last time, I had answered both. I had taken the case, eager to prove myself. I had answered the call, desperate to help my family.

Last time, I had played the part of the dutiful daughter, the diligent lawyer.

It got me a lifetime of betrayal, culminating in a death sentence delivered by my own mother.

This time, I let the phone ring until it fell silent.

I ignored the message from my boss.

With a calmness that terrified even myself, I swung my legs out of bed, walked to the kitchen, and pulled a carton of orange juice from the fridge.

I was a spectator now.

And the show was just about to begin.

§02

My grandmother, Margaret, emerged from her room, her face a mask of disapproval as she saw me lounging on the sofa, scrolling through my phone.

The half-eaten slice of Godiva chocolate cake on the coffee table only deepened her scowl.

“Who told you that you could eat that cake, Clara?” she snapped, her voice sharp as broken glass.

“That was for Jenna. Do you have any idea how much that cost?”

I took another deliberate bite, savoring the rich, dark chocolate. “It’s just cake, Grandma.”

“It’s always ‘just something’ with you, isn’t it?” she continued, her voice rising. “Always playing on that phone. Why can’t you be more like Graham? Or Jenna? She’s not even family yet, but she has more grace in her little finger than you have in your entire body.”

The familiar comparison, the casual cruelty of it, no longer stung. It was just… noise.

“Technically, Grandma, I’m your granddaughter. Jenna is not,” I said, my tone flat and detached.

Her face contorted with fury, but before she could unleash another tirade, her phone rang, shrill and insistent.

She snatched it from the countertop.

“Hello? … What? The courthouse? What are you talking about? That’s impossible! My George is a gentleman! How dare you slander his name!”

The color drained from her face.

She swayed, her hand flying to her chest as she hung up the phone.

“Margaret? What is it? What’s happened?” My father, Robert, rushed in from the study, his face etched with concern.

She collapsed onto the sofa, her voice a choked sob. “It’s your father… They… They’ve arrested him. For… for assault.”

My father’s face went pale. He, my grandmother, and I, we all rushed to the courthouse, a grim reenactment of a scene I knew all too well.

I walked behind them, my expression a carefully constructed mask of shock and worry.

Inside, I was perfectly still.

§03

The courthouse buzzed with a low, anxious energy.

Last time, this place was the stage for my frantic, desperate fight to save a man I loved.

Today, it was a theater, and I had the best seat in the house.

My father, his face ashen, was talking to a court official, his voice tight with disbelief.

The news was dire. Without a successful defense, my grandfather, George Rothwell, was facing life in prison.

Margaret, her face streaked with tears, turned to me, a flicker of desperate hope in her eyes. “Clara… you’re a lawyer. You have to help him!”

Before I could even respond, my father shot the idea down, his voice dripping with condescension. “Mom, don’t be ridiculous. She graduated from some second-rate state school. You want her defending Dad? That’s not helping, that’s a death sentence.”

The casual dismissal, the utter lack of faith, it was a familiar knife twisting in an old wound.

Except this time, the wound was already scarred over.

I forced tears to my eyes, playing the part of the wounded, inadequate daughter.

“Graham,” I choked out, my voice thick with faux emotion. “Graham is the one. He’s the genius, the Ivy League graduate. I’ll call him right now. He’ll know what to do. Graham can save Grandpa.”

Margaret seized the idea like a drowning woman grabbing a lifeline. “Yes! My brilliant grandson! Call him, Clara! Call him now!”

My father, however, hesitated. “But… Graham’s busy. He’s… he’s on his way to Hawaii with your mother and Jenna. We shouldn’t disturb them.”

Busy.

The word hung in the air, heavy and obscene.

Too busy for his own grandfather, who was on the precipice of ruin.

I knew the truth. They weren’t just “busy.” They were celebrating the engagement that had been unofficially planned for years, a trip meticulously orchestrated by my dear former friend, Jenna.

“I don’t care how busy he is!” Margaret shrieked, her grief turning to rage. “Is a vacation more important than his own flesh and blood? Call him! Now!”

My aunt Cathy, who had just arrived, rushed to my grandmother’s side. “She’s right, Robert. Graham is our only hope right now.”

With all eyes on me, I pulled out my phone and dialed my brother’s number.

The line rang, once, twice, three times.

The air grew thick with tension.

“Why isn’t he answering?” Margaret wailed.

Just as my father started to make another excuse, the call connected.

But it wasn’t my brother’s voice. It was the sterile, automated message of his voicemail.

I hung up and looked at them, my face a perfect portrait of helplessness.

“He didn’t pick up.”

§04

A wave of panic washed over my family.

Aunt Cathy grabbed my phone, her fingers flying across the screen as she typed out a frantic text to Graham, explaining the dire situation.

Almost immediately, three voice messages popped up in response.

Cathy hit play.

The first was Graham’s voice, laced with incredulous laughter.

“Are you kidding me? Grandpa, arrested for sexual assault? At the courthouse? Hah! Clara, you’ve really outdone yourself this time. That’s the most ridiculous lie I’ve ever heard.”

The second message was just as dismissive.

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