After the college entrance exams, my mother gifted a villa worth $30 million to her first love and his son.

But when my father needed just $700 for life-saving surgery, she refused.

I broke down and called her—only to hear his voice on the other end.

"I told your mother not to give it," he said casually. "Shawn saw a watch that costs exactly five thousand dollars. He’s expected to score 700 on the exam. Isn’t that more worth rewarding than some old man faking illness?"

In the background, my mother’s laughter rang out—soft, sweet, and utterly cruel.

My father wiped away my tears and whispered, “My dear son… take care of yourself when I’m no longer around…”

After he died, I brought his death certificate to my mother. She glanced at it and burst out laughing.

“Oh, spare me the drama. Faking death now? How pathetic,” she sneered. “Shawn might be going to Stanford University. I’m sending him on a seven-day trip to Bali. I don’t have time to play along with you two.

“If everything goes right, he’ll get in. When we hold his entrance banquet, your dad can come and congratulate him.”

I looked at her and said coldly, “Don’t worry. Even if he aces the test, he’s not getting into Stanford.”

——

I sat beside my father's cold body, holding his lifeless hand.

The cake in front of me had long gone cold, too. It was the last thing he ever bought me.

I didn’t get the gift my mother promised after the exams. Instead, I watched her spend 200 million to transfer the villa in the city center to Mark’s son. The news of it being Shawn Spencer’s college exam gift made the headlines.

I was heartbroken.

My father saw it, too. He went out to buy me a cake and was hit by a car on the way back.

At the hospital, I overheard the nurses gossiping:

“Mark the nurse is so lucky—Miss Vaughn’s gorgeous and still so in love with him.”

“I thought she had a family! And that kid—Shawn—don’t they say he’s their child?”

“Honestly, the drama of it all... I love it!”

I turned my head. Maybe my red, swollen eyes gave something away, because they quickly lowered their voices:

“That poor father and son… Last time, Mark just scratched his finger and Miss Vaughn brought in an expert panel.”

“But for $700, she let this man die. Took her all night and still wouldn’t help. The difference in how people are treated…”

“And honestly? They didn’t look like they couldn’t afford it.”

I smiled bitterly.

Of course we had $700. But my mother had already handed all our finances over to Mark—her long-lost first love.

When she saw him again, worn down and overworked at the hospital, she lost her mind. She said Dad had taken the position Mark was meant for, that he had ruined his future.

Wracked with guilt for a man she had never stopped loving, she handed him everything.

Last night, I called Mark.

He laughed in my face.

"Parking here overnight costs 200. If you can't pay, we’ll have to send your father away some other way.”

Now, standing at the funeral home, I gripped the phone with trembling hands.

I called him directly.

If he could pick up my mother's calls, he could answer mine.

“Please return what belonged to my father. I just want to take him home.”

His reply?

“Nathaniel, do you know your mother is throwing me a birthday party tonight? And you really had to ruin it with your little drama?”

My breath caught.

A birthday?

So my mother did have time—to celebrate someone else's birthday.

“Fine,” Mark finally said, his tone smug. “I’m in a good mood today. I’ll send it back. But remember what you said—once you take the dowry, don’t come causing trouble again.”

He hung up.

A moment later, I received a transfer notification.

$18.

I stared at the screen in disbelief.

I called him back immediately. “Eighteen dollars? His life savings were six figures. And you send back eighteen bucks?”

Mark snorted. “Why are you making a fuss? Your mother gave me full control of the finances. Do you think managing a household is cheap?

“If I didn’t budget carefully—with you and your dad draining expenses—there wouldn’t even be $18 left!”

My chest was heaved. “My father and I survived on less than $300 a month. And you’re the one living in a $30 million villa. Who’s really draining the money?”

I had raised my voice.

On the other end, my mother’s voice cut in, sharp and annoyed. “What’s going on?”

Mark instantly changed his tone—his cold arrogance replaced by pitiful grievance. “Clara… Nathaniel said I don’t deserve to manage the family’s money. She wants me to hand it back…”

“Clara, am I wrong for just wanting to be the head of the household?”

“Nathaniel!” my mother snapped, snatching the phone. “Do you think it’s easy to run a household? If it weren’t for Mark’s sacrifices, do you think your life would’ve been so easy?

“Everything I gave them—they earned. If you dare stir up trouble with your father again, get out!”

Then she hung up.

I tried calling again.

Blocked.

The funeral home staff stared at me in confusion.

I clenched my fists, my pride bleeding through my teeth. Then I dropped to my knees with a thud. “Please…” My voice cracked. “I’ll work for free…”

The staff glanced at each other in awkward silence.

I bowed my head, then looked up again, eyes red, lips trembling. “I’ll clean the morgue. Just… let me pay off the debt.”

They hesitated. One turned to the director. After a long pause, he sighed. “Fine.”

I had always feared the dark.

When I was little, my father would tell me stories at night just so I could fall asleep peacefully. Now, I curled up in the cold, silent morgue, forcing myself not to shake.

I replayed my father’s voice in my mind, over and over.

As if he were still beside me.

Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes.

If ghosts truly existed… maybe he would stay with me.

I worked in that morgue for a week, scrubbing floors, handling the dead, enduring the cold and the silence—until I finally saved enough to give my father a proper burial.

Then, I returned to the villa to retrieve his belongings.

But the moment I reached the door, I froze.

Colorful flowers covered the entrance. Balloons, lights, and a large LED screen hung overhead:

[Happy 18th Birthday, Baby Shawn!]

I stood there, unmoving.

So it was today.

Shawn’s birthday.

Tears burned my eyes.

Mark and my father were born just a week apart.

My father’s birthday… was just three days before mine.

But every year, my mother combined our birthdays. A single greeting card, casually handed over, was all we got.

Dad would always protect my aching heart. He’d smile and say, “Your mother’s busy, sweetheart. She still took time to get a card. That means she cares.”

But Dad, how could I not see it?

How could I not see the obvious favoritism?

“Ugh!”

A voice rang out behind me.

I turned.

It was Shawn.

Dressed head to toe in a designer suit, his face glowing with arrogance and disdain.

He looked me over and sneered.

“Nathaniel, why do you smell like a dead rat?”

Of course I did.

I had worked in the morgue for a week.

During that time, I didn’t shower—just to save water.

The funeral home was five kilometers from our house. I walked the entire way each day to save money for my father’s burial.

Now, the stench of the morgue clung to me, mixing with the sweat that soaked my clothes. In front of Shawn—dressed in a designer suit worth eight million—I must have looked like a beggar.

But I was the biological son of this family.

“Shawn!”

Mark rushed over, immediately wrapping his arms around his precious son.

They were wearing matching outfits—like some flawless, successful father-son duo.

I didn’t respond. I simply walked past them, numb, and climbed the stairs to my father’s room.

There wasn’t much left.

Before Mark came back into her life, my mother claimed she wanted to be an independent woman. My father had quietly supported her dream, always willing to stand behind her success.

He lived frugally. Even when my mother’s earnings grew, he never spent a cent on himself.

After Mark returned, control over the household finances shifted. My father and I barely had any spending money. We scraped by on the little we were allowed.

The only things of value my father had were a worn Parker pen and an old art album from his school days. It had a few photos of him smiling, surrounded by blooming flowers.

“Nathaniel, didn’t you hear me talking to you?”

I turned. Shawn stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his gaze icy.

“Did you forget the rule? When you see me, you kneel.”

It was a rule his clique enforced at school. And I had obeyed it—until now.

But I had taken the college entrance exams. I was done with their games. I wasn’t going to bow anymore.

So I brushed past him and kept walking.

He blinked, stunned. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

I didn’t look back.

“Bastard!”

Before I could react, he snatched the art album out of my hands and began tearing it apart.

Rip.

Rip.

“No!” I shouted, eyes wide in horror.

The album—the last piece of my father—was being shredded in front of me.

He smirked. Bullies only smile when they know they’ve broken you.

“You piece of—”

Crack!

My fist slammed into his face.

He stumbled. I grabbed his hair, yanked him down, and forced him to the ground.

“If you don’t fix that album,” I growled, “I’ll make you wish you never touched it.”

A sharp kick slammed into my back.

I gasped.

Turning around, I saw my mother.

She rushed to shield Shawn, while Mark was already wiping the dirt from his son’s face with trembling care.

“Today is Shawn’s coming-of-age ceremony!” she shouted. “Is this what your father taught you? Resorting to violence like some delinquent?”

I stared at her.

Then I laughed.

Tears welled in my eyes as I pulled a folded sheet of paper from my pocket and slapped it on the table.

A death certificate.

“Dad is dead.”

The room went silent.

My mother and Mark froze.

I picked up the torn pieces of the art album and held them out.

“You call me vicious, but what he destroyed were your shared memories.”

My father used to sketch her often—especially when she was young. Back when she needed him, back when they were still a team.

She used to be the center of his world. And she pretended he was hers.

Until she met Mark again.

Even then, my father kept drawing her.

My mother’s expression flickered.

“Nathaniel… how could you say something so cruel?” she whispered. “How could you curse your father like this?”

Mark suddenly snatched the death certificate from the table.

“I work at the hospital,” he scoffed. “This is clearly a fake. I saw your father shopping with you at the mall just yesterday!”

“You’re lying!” I shouted.

“Enough!” my mother barked.

She ripped the art album from my hands and hurled it to the floor.

“You two really have no other tricks? Faking death now, just because you’re jealous?”

My voice trembled as I faced them both.

“The death certificate is real. My father has been dead for a week.

“Do you think I’d be shopping at the mall when we only had $300 a month to live on—thanks to you giving Mark control of the money?

“We didn’t even have enough to buy painkillers. And you think we went shopping?”