Chapter 215: Refusal
Graduating from a military academy and entering the armed forces meant becoming an officer candidate. Depending on one's responsibilities, such individuals rarely saw the front lines. Even if they did, they held leadership positions, far removed from the dangerous work of foot soldiers.
But enlisting directly? That meant becoming a grunt.
Let's not forget, America had once used a bag of washing powder to claim the presence of weapons of mass destruction. In the name of "peace," they stirred up chaos in the Middle East for their own gain.
Serving in the U.S. military almost always meant being stationed in the Middle East for several years.
And the Middle East was a dangerous place. When trouble broke out, who was sent in first? The grunts. Cannon fodder. Death came without warning.
Even if someone was lucky enough to make it back in one piece and retire safely, many veterans struggled to adjust to peacetime life. PTSD was rampant—not just in isolated cases, but widespread and devastating.
And now Monica, Ian's mother, had actually brought him to enlist?
Wasn't she just pushing him into a pit of fire!?
Thankfully, the recruitment office turned Ian down. Had he been accepted, things could've turned into a real mess.
"You've really changed, Frank," Monica said, looking stunned at Frank's sudden fury.
The Frank Monica once knew only cared about himself. He never gave a damn whether the kids lived or died.
"I'm not the Frank you used to know. I won't let you near my kids again," Frank said, his voice lowering as he took a step closer to Monica.
Then, without warning, overcome by a surge of emotion from deep within, Frank pulled Monica into a kiss—passionate, reckless.
"Hey! Hey! Knock it off, you two!" Roberta ran over and forcibly separated them.
"What the hell did I just do?" Frank snapped back to reality, his face a mix of disbelief and regret.
"Frank, let's cut to the chase," Roberta said bluntly. "How much do you want to sign the paperwork and let us take Liam?"
Even though they had lost the lawsuit and failed to win custody, Roberta still thought there was hope.
She knew the old Frank—scum of the earth. If the price was right, he could be bought. And with money, Liam could still be theirs.
"Absolutely not," Frank shot back without hesitation.
"I will never hand Liam over to you. Tomorrow, we're filing for divorce. You're not fit to be their mother," he said, staring Monica down.
But he had to look away—every time his eyes met Monica's, a confusing mix of longing and anger bubbled up inside.
"No need for that. You and Monica are already divorced," Roberta said coldly. "She and I registered our marriage already."
"Even better," Frank replied.
But despite what he said, Frank couldn't stop the storm of emotions rising in his chest—bitterness, fury, disbelief. He furrowed his brows and forced himself to push the feelings down.
"So name your price. Three thousand? Five?" Roberta pulled out her wallet and flashed a thick stack of bills, looking at Frank with mocking eyes.
She was sure the Frank she knew wouldn't be able to resist so much cash.
"Get the hell out!" Frank roared. "No one takes my kids away from me!"
He sounded like a lion guarding its territory. Even the intimidating Roberta flinched in surprise.
"Frank, don't push your luck," Roberta warned.
But before she could finish, Frank pulled a pistol from his coat.
"This is your last warning. Get. Out," he growled, thumbing off the safety.
"Shit! Come on, Monica!" Roberta cursed, quickly dragging her away. Frank looked like he meant it.
As they fled, Frank let out a long breath and slapped his face to clear his head.
"Dad~" he heard Debbie's voice as he opened the front door. Inside, the house was as chaotic and lively as ever. Debbie threw herself at him.
"Did you miss me?" Frank crouched down and hugged her, the earlier emotions melting away.
Looking at the noisy kids around him, Frank couldn't help but smile. Compared to this, everything else—pain, hardship—felt like nothing.
He held Debbie and Carl in his arms, reading them a story. Liam sat nearby in his stroller, waving his arms excitedly—though who knew if he understood a thing.
Lip was in his room. Ian sat on the couch, eyes on the TV, but kept glancing at Frank. Clearly, something was on his mind.
Frank noticed the glances, but when he looked back, Ian quickly turned away, pretending to watch TV.
"Alright, time for bed!" Fiona called out.
"Aww, the story was just getting good," Debbie pouted.
"We'll continue tomorrow. Off to bed now," Frank said.
The kids grudgingly headed to their rooms. Once everything quieted down, Fiona pulled two beers from the fridge, handed one to Frank, and sat down.
"You've done a lot today," Frank said gratefully.
"That doesn't sound like you," Fiona replied.
"How's Jimmy?" Frank asked. That morning, he had told Fiona the truth about Jimmy, and she'd been furious.
"Same as always. What can I say? He and I have nothing to do with each other. He came to see me today—I kicked him out. He's married, you know."
"He's married?" Frank blinked in surprise. He hadn't heard that.
"Yeah, to some woman in Brazil. He's been there the last six months. Heard he pissed off a drug lord, and got forced to marry the guy's daughter. The plan was to bring her to the U.S. and get citizenship that way," Fiona said, taking a swig.
"A Brazilian drug lord…" Frank muttered thoughtfully.
"What about the money—what'd you do with it?" Fiona asked, eager to drop the Jimmy topic.
"I'm handling it. Once everything's clean, I'll give it to you," Frank said.
"I don't want your money," Fiona frowned.
"Doesn't matter. Whether you want it or not, it's yours eventually. You're my daughter. Who else would I give it to?" Frank replied.
"…You really don't have cancer?" Fiona suddenly asked, suspicion in her voice.
"Of course not," Frank answered, staring at the cigarette between his fingers instead of her eyes.
Fiona didn't reply. But her expression said it all—she didn't believe him.
And who could blame her?
If Frank had only faked a cancer diagnosis, maybe she would've believed his denial. But he had left a will—a thick stack of heartfelt letters written for each child. The words were raw, honest, full of emotion.
No faker could've written those.
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