Father said: «You are no longer our daughter.» They took everything. 3 years later… They declared me dead. I walked into my funeral—I smiled and said…

I was making coffee when my phone buzzed. It was a video message from Mrs. Langford, our old neighbor. I hadn’t heard from her in years.

Just her name on my screen brought back memories I thought I’d buried. The message was short. No greeting, no context, just one line.

I’m so sorry about your parents. I can’t believe what I saw today. My stomach tightened.

I tapped on the video. It was a church, a familiar one. St. Albans.

The same place where they used to take me for Christmas Eve services when I was little. The camera zoomed in slowly on two figures standing at the podium. My parents.

My mother, dressed in black lace and pearls, dabbing fake tears. My father, stiff and solemn, reading from a paper with shaking hands. Behind them, a casket.

And next to that casket was my photograph, large, framed, flowers around it. I froze. No, my father’s voice echoed through the phone.

She was always a troubled girl. But we loved her. We did everything we could.

My vision blurred. He was reading a eulogy, my obituary. Though, she left this world far too young, we pray her soul finally finds peace.

What? I wasn’t dead. I was standing in my apartment, alive, breathing, shaking. This couldn’t be real.

I scrubbed the timeline back, played it again, and again. Their faces didn’t change. Their voices didn’t shake from grief.

They were calm. Controlled, performed. I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter.

My hands wouldn’t stop trembling. What the hell is going on? I whispered aloud. Why are they doing this? I hadn’t spoken to them in years.

Not since they cut me off, disowned me like I was a stain on their reputation. But to hold a funeral? To declare me dead? The more I watched, the colder it got. My mother mentioned how tragic my accident was…