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.
