The day I died, my sister’s wedding went on as scheduled.

She wore a wedding gown and married my boyfriend.

My mother called me several times. When no one answered, she angrily called me an ungrateful wretch.

My brother sent me a text, scolding me: “Are you really that petty? Still holding a grudge over something from two years ago?”

My usually taciturn father said with a cold face, “Tell her, if she doesn’t come home today, we’ll act as if we never had this daughter.”

They didn’t really want me home. They just didn’t want my sister’s wedding to be anything less than perfect for lacking my blessing.

But I was already dead.

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