I Died Twice, Now Dad Reads Minds / Chapter 2: The Hearth and the Promise
I Died Twice, Now Dad Reads Minds

I Died Twice, Now Dad Reads Minds

Author: Brett Donaldson

Chapter 2: The Hearth and the Promise

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I was full of ambition, scribbling plans and dreams in secret. Dad barely noticed me, never had a kind word, but I was determined to prove myself, no matter who stood in my way.

And I had Google as my secret weapon in my mind.

Honestly, it felt like cheating. I’d just think of a question, let the answer pop up, and go from there. Made me cocky, sure, but also desperate to finally win for once.

Unlike real-life Google, my brain didn’t spit out a million links. I’d just get the right answer—sometimes with pictures, sometimes with a whole video in my head. All I had to do was think about it.

For complicated stuff, there was even a step-by-step breakdown from some expert—like a cooking show or a TED talk, right in my mind. The process was right there, clear as day.

With this cheat, wasn’t I obviously the main character?

I laughed to myself, a little bitterly. Turns out, life isn’t a story where the hero always wins.

Who would’ve thought, I died before I even got started!

Just as I managed to produce soap—a game-changer in this world—I got set up by my golden-boy brother, Elliot. He framed me for colluding with foreign spies, and I ended up in county jail.

My mom was just a maid—nothing special, just working hard at the Whitaker estate. Even when I turned fifteen, she’d only gotten promoted to housekeeper.

After I ruined her chances, she had nowhere to turn. She tried to kill herself by slamming her head into the pillar in Dad’s study. It was desperate, brutal, and I never got over it.

The memory was sharp as glass. Her scream, the sickening thud, the way she crumpled to the floor—it haunted me.

That was bad—suicide in the house was seriously unlucky. The Whitaker name was suddenly a curse, and everyone in town knew it.

My so-called Dad’s face was cold and furious. With Elliot whispering in his ear, he kicked me out for good—said I wasn’t his son, and that was that.

He didn’t even look at me as he spoke. Just turned away, like I was already dead to him.

I was devastated, but my brother pretended to make peace. He found me outside, rain pouring down, and offered me a deal: work for him, hand over my soap recipe, and maybe he’d take care of me.

He said, “Jackson, you’re smart. If you play along, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

He wanted me to become his right-hand man and hand over the soap-making process for free. Yeah, right—like I’d give him everything for nothing.

The nerve of him.

Me: *Keep dreaming.*

I didn’t even bother to answer. My silence said everything.

Of course, we parted on bad terms. Brothers in name only, and that was never going to change.

In just three days, I died a miserable, lonely death out on the street. No one came looking, no one cared.

But instead of disappearing, I watched the rise and fall of this country like a ghost, drifting through its history with nothing but regret.

When I saw illegal traders from overseas—Albion, they called it—smuggling in black opium, my heart pounded. Black Crow, they called it. The stuff was poison, and it spread fast.

No way?

My mind raced. Was this really happening here, in America?

No way!

I wanted to scream, to warn someone, but I was just a ghost—no voice, no power, only helplessness as I watched it all happen.

But what happened next broke me completely.

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