My Mother Killed Me For Her Stepdaughter novel Chapter 37

Thinking about my sister's medical report diagnosing her with depression, I felt a wave of unease as I typed out a reply to her message:

"You've always been the best sister anyone could ask for. I wouldn't be where I am today without you. Tomorrow's my birthday, and I need you there. I only want to celebrate it with you."

Her response came quickly, full of warmth and affection that practically leapt off the screen:

"What's with the sudden sentimentality, little sis? Of course, I'll be there for your birthday. Is something going on? You know you can tell me anything. I'll always have your back."

She even included a string of playful emojis. As I stared at the cheerful icons, I couldn't help but wonder: Could someone with severe depression really act like this? Could they send so many texts, so frequently sharing updates about their day?

When I was eleven, we lost our parents in a car accident. It was just me and my sister, who had only recently graduated from college. We survived on the small settlement from the accident, scraping by as we supported each other. Over the years, she started her own company, and our lives gradually improved.

We'd always been close. Even after I left for college, she called me every day to check in, and I could always sense her mood immediately.

Scrolling through our text history, I found nothing unusual. Her messages were full of positivity. Even if something had been wrong, my sister wasn't the type to spiral inward. If she wasn't depressed, how could she have taken her own life because of it?

"Hey, what's on your mind? Are you feeling okay?" Daniel's voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

Before I could respond, his phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen: it was Sophia.

Daniel, unfazed, handed me the phone. "Can you answer that for me? If any women call me during my off hours, I always let you take the call—just so you don't worry," he said with a reassuring smile.

Her well-wishes were so sincere that I couldn't detect a single note of insincerity. And yet, the more perfect her demeanor seemed, the more uneasy I felt.

Sophia had always been impeccably polite to me, and my sister often praised her as a hard worker, even giving her multiple raises. I'd known her longer than I'd known Daniel.

But after my sister's death, Sophia had been the first to accuse me of being a murderer—the same woman who knew better than anyone how close my sister and I were.

I swallowed my doubts, keeping my expression neutral. "Thank you, Sophia. I appreciate it."

For now, I buried my suspicions deep, but they lingered like a shadow.