My Brother Became a Vegetable To Save Me Novel by NANCY ROWSE

When my parents returned home, they thought they had escaped the media.

Little did they know, a reporter had uploaded a video online, sparking outrage among netizens driven by a sense of justice.

They tracked down our home address, and some even sent memorial wreaths to my parents.

The school where my father worked faced significant backlash, with demands for accountability as many deemed him unworthy of being a teacher.

Mom’s law firm was besieged daily, her hard–earned reputation crumbling in an instant.

On the day of the funeral, the sun shone blindingly.

In addition to Lucas, who was struggling to accept reality, distant relatives who had once shown me indifference arrived, along with some unfamiliar faces, all wearing sorrowful expressions.

They watched helplessly as I was placed in a tiny urn.

My usually composed father broke down, confessing that he regretted not fulfilling his responsibilities as a father.

“If I could, I would gladly take your place,” he cried.

Finally, my mother shed tears, her lips trembling. “I’m sorry, Lia. How could I not love you?”

Lia–she remembered my childhood nickname.

It had been so long since I had heard it.

When did she stop calling me that?

Perhaps it was after I had to redo an exam three times, filled with errors.

Or maybe it was when I won third place in a citywide writing contest and excitedly shared the news, only to have her reply, “Your brother won first in a national math competition; what are you so proud of?”

Mom knelt before the gravestone, weeping uncontrollably and beating her chest. Dad, seeing this, also knelt beside her, bowing deeply to my grave.

“We’re so sorry, we should have died instead,” he said. “We were too busy trying to provide you and your brother with a better life, neglecting your feelings.”

-Thud.

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With each heavy bow, his forehead scraped against the stone, leaving behind patches of blood. How hypocritical. I stood before the gravestone, watching their charade with cold detachment. I couldn’t believe they truly felt remorse; if anything, it was only to assuage their guilt.

Unfortunately, I was just a spirit. They couldn’t see or hear me.

Sure enough, Dad suddenly looked up. The sorrow in his eyes had been replaced by indifference. He turned to the strangers

around him and asked, “Did you get that on camera?”

The stranger nodded, holding up his phone. “Got it, don’t worry!”

The wind in the cemetery blew fiercely, causing my wavering form to tremble. I curled inward and smiled softly. This was how it should be; they didn’t cherish me in life, so how could they suddenly feel regret in death?

My parents‘ years of connections were now coming into play, bolstered by the footage from the cemetery. The online outrage quickly turned to sympathy.

“Lydia’s parents are first–time parents, too.”

“Maybe there was a misunderstanding. I heard Lydia was introverted and might not have communicated with her parents.”

“I refuse to believe there are parents who don’t love their own child.”

Dad sat in his study, reading the comments on his phone, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.

For the first time, I felt the cruelty of being a soul. I wanted to knock over the lamp. I wanted to spill the water cup. I wanted to startle him. I wanted to tell him I had always been by his side, that I knew every move he made.

But alas, I could do nothing.

At least, my spirit grew weaker by the day. I sensed I was close to fading away. Finally, I would no longer be trapped in this home that never belonged to me.