...Mom?" I shouted in terror.

My mom heard me.

She asked me, "What's wrong?"

She could see me.

I'm still alive.

I didn't die.

I'm not a ghost!

Only then did I breathe a sigh of relief and pointed to the photo, asking, "What's going on here?"

"What's going on? That's you," she replied.

"Me?"

"Yes, it's you, your posthumous portrait."

"But I'm still alive."

My mom gave me a meaningful look and hung the posthumous portrait in the most prominent place in the living room.

Suddenly, I remembered something. My aunt had said in the group chat that today they were attending the funeral of a little girl.

Could that little girl be me?

In that instant, whether it was nervousness or fear, I felt my mouth go dry.

As soon as my mom saw the takeout on the table, a dark cloud immediately formed on her face. "How irresponsible is your sister? Didn't I tell you? Don't eat takeout. It's not clean or healthy. Don't we have vegetables in the refrigerator? You should feed your little brother that."

What little brother?

How come I didn't know I had a little brother?

When did I agree to raise a little brother?

I asked, "Whose funeral are you attending?"

"Yours."

"Mine?"

"Yes, yours." My mom looked at me confidently. "You're a woman and a sister. You should understand the sacrifice for the family. Women in our family have sacrificed everything for the sake of the family for generations. Look at me, your aunt, your auntie. Haven't we all given everything for the family? Sooner or later, you'll have to sacrifice too. We love you, that's why we've prepared a funeral for you. It's our family's recognition of you."