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?”

“Nathaniel…”

Mark’s eyes turned red, his voice quivering. “Are you saying I’m jealous? That I mocked your father’s death and withheld your living expenses?”

I clenched my fists. “Stop pretending.”

I lunged toward him, but my mother shoved me back with force.

“Haven’t you caused enough trouble?” she shouted, pointing a trembling finger at me.

“It was your father who took Mark’s position! Do you think he wanted to be a single father, reduced to taking orders as a caregiver?

“He was the one who wronged Mark. I was just compensating for that. Why does he have to be so petty about it?”

I hit the floor hard, but I didn’t wince. Gritting my teeth, I looked up.

“It wasn’t Dad who owed him,” I said coldly. “You did.”

“What did you say?” Her eyes narrowed, her voice lowering dangerously.

I met her gaze without flinching.

“To help the Vaughn family, you accepted a political marriage with the Gray family. You gave up your so-called 'true love.' But that was your choice—not Dad’s fault.

“If you had any backbone, no one could’ve forced you to marry him.

“You didn’t want the struggle of building a future from nothing, but you also couldn’t let go of your first love. So you buried your guilt, your regret—and you pinned everything on Dad.”

Her lips trembled, her eyes flashing with rage.

“It was never Dad who owed you anything. The one who owes your first love is you—a coward who didn’t dare face the truth about herself.”

Smack!

A hard slap cracked across my face.

My head jerked sideways. I tasted blood.

She stood there, trembling.

I slowly turned my face back and smiled bitterly. “You’re angry because I told the truth, aren’t you?”

Smack!

Another slap.

“Thomas Gray raised a monster! You’re nothing like him!” she spat. “What a disgrace!”

And with that, she turned and left—taking her beloved father-son duo with her like I was the shame of the house.

She didn’t even wait for me to speak.

I knelt there, quietly gathering the torn pages of my father’s drawings—what little was left of him.

---

Back at the funeral home, my phone rang.

My mother.

“Nathaniel,” she said sweetly, “I’m sorry. I was just too emotional earlier.”

“I realized… we haven’t held your coming-of-age ceremony yet. I was so busy helping you prepare for the college entrance exams.

“So here’s the plan—the day after tomorrow, I’ve booked a full theater downtown. I’ve invited a reporter to film it. I’ll give you the most thoughtful, meaningful ceremony a son could ever have.”

“I—” I tried to refuse.

But she hung up before I could finish.

I wanted to ignore it. I really did.

But then I looked at my father’s portrait on the urn.

A bitter smile pulled at my lips.

A news reporter? Perfect.

Let’s tell the whole world, live on camera, how my father died.

---

The day arrived.

I stepped out of the car, carrying my father’s urn in my arms.

The downtown venue loomed in front of me, beautifully decorated.

But then I looked up.

And froze.

[Congratulations to Baby Shawn on Getting Into Stanford University!]

My knees nearly buckled.

My mother stood at the door, beaming. “Why are you just standing there? Come in, quick.”

I stared at her. “Didn’t you say this was my coming-of-age ceremony?”

She waved it off. “Oh, stop it. Coming-of-age ceremonies can be held anytime. But Shawn? His big moment only happens once.

“You two—father and son—you’re always so dramatic. If I hadn’t used this excuse, would you have even shown up?”

Then, casually, as if it were nothing: “By the way, where’s your father? He’s such a good singer. He should be up there performing a celebration song for Shawn.”

A gust of wind blew.

The black cloth covering the urn slipped off, revealing my father’s portrait.

She stared.

Her face drained of color.

“What… what do you mean by this? Is Thomas really trying to ruin Shawn’s big day?!”

“Mom—”

Crash!

She slapped the urn out of my hands.

It hit the pavement with a sickening thud.

The porcelain shattered.

Ashes scattered like dust in the wind.