My Father Called Me a Murderer, So I Died

When I was eight years old, my mother lost her life protecting me.

My father hated me to the bone. He shipped me off to my uncle’s house, where I stayed for ten miserable years.

He only brought me back because his adopted daughter said she felt "lonely." But the very first thing he said to me when I walked through the door was:

"You murderer. You killed your mother. How do you even have the nerve to still be alive?"

To fulfill his wishes, I died in a car crash on the exact day I received my college acceptance letter.