Three months after my death, my mother’s liver cancer recurred.

My sister came to my apartment, demanding that I donate my liver to our mother.

The landlord told her, "Florrie is already dead."

My sister sneered, "Florence is as obstinate as ever! She’ll use any excuse to seek attention. She’s a born troublemaker, nowhere near as good as Evie. Tell her not to play tricks and to donate her liver to Mom, or she’ll have to face me!"

The elderly landlord, with his gray hair, grew furious and chased my sister away with a mop.

"I’ve told you, Florrie is dead—killed by you and your family!"

"Florrie has been dead for three months. What more do you want from her?"

"Florrie was truly unlucky to have a family like you!"

Realizing I was truly gone, my sister’s face turned pale, and she fled in panic.