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?”
