Too Late For "I Love You"

My career as a restorative artist thrived, a perfect mask for the gaping hole my estranged mother left.

For years, I'd demonized Eleanor, especially after my father's tragic death, blaming her for everything.

So, when a Jane Doe, brutally disfigured, landed on my marble slab, it was just another case.

Until I saw it: a familiar, faint burn scar on her forearm.

I dismissed it – "evil people live forever," I'd sneered.

Then, the pieces clicked.

The police timeline, a chilling echo of my last, dismissive phone call with my mother.

My colleague pointed out the scar was deliberately removed.

Sam, an old family friend, ambushed me, his words a painful hammer.

Eleanor had longed for reconciliation, had baked my favorite apple pie for her birthday – for me.

He confessed that my father, Richard, had lied about everything.

A detective's grim call confirmed the worst.

My heart seized.

The woman I'd just worked on, the "Jane Doe," was my mother.

The woman I'd scorned, the woman whose death I'd scoffed at, was now lying on my table, her face meticulously rebuilt by my own hands.

My last words to her, "Stop trying to ruin everything with your drama!", rang in my ears.

How could I have been so blind, so cruel?

This was the horrifying truth staring back at me.

This was Eleanor.

And now, I would find out what truly happened.

My murder was messy, brutal.

It happened on my forty-ninth birthday.

Now, I just float, unseen.

I watch them find me.

Police lights flash through the trees in the state park.

They're looking at my body in a shallow grave.

It's not a pretty sight, even for me, and I'm the one who's dead.

They talk in low voices, "Severe trauma," one says.

Another points to the smashed, homemade apple pie near the grave.

Chloe's favorite. My Chloe.

I baked it for her, for my birthday, hoping.

My last words to her echo in my non-existent ears.

Hours ago, I called, wanted to see her.

She screamed at me.

"Don't you know Mom is coming home from her bypass surgery today?! Stop trying to ruin everything with your drama!"

"Mom" was Diane Johnson, her mother-in-law. Not me.

That cut deep, even before Frank Johnson cut everything else.

Now, Chloe is at the Johnsons' house, fussing over Diane.

She doesn't know I'm here, a forgotten horror in the woods.

My spirit aches. Heartbreak is a ghost's companion, it seems.

They lift my body onto a gurney.

So clinical. So final.

The pie, a symbol of my failed hope, gets put in an evidence bag.

My daughter. My estranged daughter.

This is the aftermath.

The van drives away, carrying what's left of Eleanor Vance.

Me.

The mortuary is cold, sterile.

Chloe works here. My Chloe.

She's the best restorative artist they have.

The irony isn't lost on me, even in this state.

The supervisor, Mr. Henderson, calls her into his office.

"We have a Jane Doe, Chloe. Badly disfigured. State park. We need your best work."

Chloe nods, all professional.

"Of course, Mr. Henderson."

She doesn't know it's me. How could she?

Maria Sanchez, her colleague, peeks at the intake form.

She shivers a little. "Poor woman."

Chloe is already looking at the preliminary photos, her face a mask of detachment.

"Approximate age, late forties," she murmurs, reading the notes.

Later, she makes a call.

I drift closer, a desperate, invisible mother.

"Hi, Diane," Chloe says, her voice soft, concerned. "Just checking in on you. How are you feeling?"

Diane, her mother-in-law, laps it up.

"Oh, Chloe, dear, so sweet of you to call."

My invisible heart shatters a little more.

She's worried about Diane.

Not about me. Not even a flicker of, "I wonder how my actual mother is doing on her birthday after I screamed at her."

The estrangement is a chasm, and I'm on the wrong side of it, forever.

Dinner at the Johnsons' house.

Kevin, Chloe's husband, is all charm, no substance.

He pats Chloe's hand, a practiced gesture.

Diane, recovering on the sofa, beams at them.

"You two are such a comfort," Diane says.

I float in the corner, watching. This is Chloe's family now.

Not me.

Diane turns to Chloe, her voice syrupy sweet.

"Chloe, dear, have you checked on your mother lately? Eleanor? It was her birthday, wasn't it?"

Chloe scoffs, a harsh, ugly sound.

"She can handle herself."

Her voice drips with old bitterness.

"Besides, after what she did to Dad, I don't owe her anything."

The accusation hangs in the air, heavy and familiar.

Richard. Her father. Dead for years.

Chloe still blames me. Believes I had an affair with Sam Carter, our friend.

Believes the stress of it killed Richard.

It's a lie Richard told, a lie I let stand to protect her from his truth.

Kevin nods sympathetically at Chloe's words. Manipulative.

He subtly undermines her, always.

I see it. I always saw it. Chloe never did.

My anger, cold and helpless, swirls around me.

They don't know I'm dead. They just think I'm the villain.

Later, Chloe is alone in her study.

She opens an old email account. One we barely used.

My messages are there. Unread.

"Happy Birthday to me! Hope to see you, sweetie. Love, Mom."

"Made your favorite apple pie. Maybe we can share a slice?"

A picture of the pie, whole and perfect, before Frank.

A pang of something crosses Chloe's face. Guilt?

She types a reply, terse and dismissive.

"Busy. Don't bother me."

She hits send.

To a dead woman.

Hours pass. No response from me, obviously.

She complains to Kevin later that night.

"She's doing it again. Her typical silent treatment. She just wants attention."

Kevin wraps an arm around her.

"Don't worry about her, babe. She'll come around when she wants something."

He's so smooth. So poisonous.

And I, Eleanor, am silent. Forever.

The irony is a bitter pill, even for a ghost.

My unread messages, my unanswered pleas, my uneaten pie.

All testament to a love Chloe refused to see.