Two days after the funeral. It was almost time for him to receive his money, but Jack didn't feel excited. He was still staying at his father's house. The small place in the outskirts of the city was old and worn down, but it was home. Or at least it used to be. It had the kind of smell that came from decades of memories—cooking, smoke, dust, and quiet sorrow. Jack hadn't changed anything yet. His father's old shoes still sat by the door. His coat still hung from the broken hanger in the hallway. The television remote still sat beside the armchair as if Gudan would return any second to grab it.
Jack had barely slept. He spent most of the past two days walking in circles through the house, staring at old pictures, trying to piece together the years he had lost. He ate little and cried more than he ever had in his life. But somehow, the silence of the house gave him a sliver of peace. It felt like he still had a connection to his father, even if the man was no longer breathing.
That peace was shattered on the second morning.
A loud knock came at the front door. Then came voices. Familiar ones. Jack opened it and immediately felt his stomach turn. Standing on the porch were Aunt Nora, Aunt May, and Aunt Bernese. Behind them stood Kyle, Giner, Mary, and Bruce. Jack blinked, confused, not understanding why they were there, all dressed like they were on some legal mission.
Nora spoke first, her tone sharp and rehearsed. She didn't even look at Jack like he was family. She stared at him like he was a stranger squatting in her basement.
"We're here to handle the estate, Jack," she said, stepping past him like she owned the place. "You're not equipped to manage this house. You're not stable, and clearly, you're not responsible."
Jack stood in the doorway, frozen. The others followed her inside, walking through the living room like they were touring a hotel lobby. Bernese and May said nothing at first, but their expressions made their opinions clear. Judging. Dismissing. Jack's fists clenched at his sides.
"What are you talking about? This is my father's house. He left it to me," Jack said, voice cracking but still defiant.
Aunt May gave a cold, practiced smile.
"There is no will, Jack. Nothing written, nothing legal. And even if there were, you abandoned him. You left him to die. You weren't even there when he had the stroke."
Bernese chimed in next, her words like ice.
"Look at you. No job. No money. You're sleeping here like a drifter. You're not ready to handle property. You need guidance. Management. We'll take care of it until you're capable. Which, honestly, might never happen."
Jack felt like someone had kicked him in the chest. He looked around at his so-called family, but not a single face showed compassion. They looked at him like he was the problem. Like he had no right to even be here.
"You think I killed him," Jack said, his voice low, almost a whisper.
Giner scoffed and crossed her arms.
"You didn't help him. That's the same thing."
Kyle added with a shrug, "You left him here alone, Jack. What did you think was going to happen?"
They said they were going to bring in a lawyer to "review the situation," but Jack saw through it. They didn't care about fairness or truth. They cared about the property. About selling the house. About splitting whatever money they could squeeze from the walls his father had lived in. He tried to argue and tried to stand his ground, but within hours, he was boxed out of his own father's home. Aunt Nora had already changed the locks by sundown. Just like that, he was homeless again.
He stood on the sidewalk with his backpack over his shoulder, staring at the closed door like it was a coffin. Everything that connected him to his father was inside. Photos. Clothes. Memories. And now it was all being looted and claimed by people who hadn't even cared if Gudan lived or died.
That night, Jack walked aimlessly through the city, weighed down by exhaustion and betrayal. His breath was shaky. He tried to think logically. He wasn't completely out of options. He knew people. Not close friends maybe, but people. People he had once helped, laughed with, gone out drinking with. People he assumed cared at least a little.
He took out his cracked phone and started calling.
The first call went to Brent, a guy he used to hang out with at work. They had shared drinks after layoffs and cursed out managers together. Jack explained his situation briefly. Just needed a couch for the night. Nothing permanent.
Brent paused and said, "Man, I got my girl over. It's not a good time." Then the line went dead.
Next was Devin, a high-school friend. Jack helped him move once, even loaned him cash when his rent was late. Devin said he had guests and couldn't squeeze Jack in.
He tried Cassandra next, a girl he once went out with. They had stayed on good terms. He thought. But she said she wasn't comfortable having anyone over and didn't want drama in her building. Then came Marcus, Reggie, Taye, and Jordan. Same result. Some didn't pick up. Some made excuses. One told him straight up, "You're not my problem, Jack."
He even tried a girl named Lani. She had once said if he ever needed help, she had his back. That night, she told him she had a new boyfriend and didn't want to get involved in anything that looked bad.
Jack stood in front of a fast-food place at midnight, his phone still in his hand. His battery was at two percent. The city lights were blurry from the tears gathering in his eyes. He looked up at the sky, at the stars, at the nothingness above him, and realized something brutal.
He had no one.
Not a single person in his life cared enough to let him sleep on a couch for one night. Not after he lost his job. Not after his father died. Not after his home was ripped away. The people he once thought were friends had already shoved him into the category of a bum. To them, he was a man circling the drain. And none of them were going to offer a hand.
He slumped down on a bench in front of the building, pulled his hood over his head, and hugged his backpack tight to his chest. It wasn't even about the cold anymore. It was about the silence. The loneliness. The feeling that he had been erased.
His phone finally died in his hand. No more calls. No more names to try. He was alone. Truly alone. And for the first time in his life, he felt like he had reached the bottom.
But something inside him refused to let that be the end. He had to remember what his father always said. "Jack, remember, whenever the rubber that is life stretches you to the end, it is about to swing you to the top." Who was he kidding, he didnt need a quote. He had 2 million dollars, and he would receive it the next day.