My Father Called Me a Disgrace the Day I Died for Him

I was a cop, ten years undercover.
Three days ago, I went home, knowing it might be the last time.
I put my life's savings, ten years of blood money, into a black plastic bag and hid it in the back of the fridge.
It was the only way I could still be a son to my father.
But he found it. He dragged the bag out, the bundles of cash spilling onto the grimy linoleum floor. His voice, hoarse with a decade of disappointment, roared, "I don't know where this dirty money comes from, and I don't want to! I'd rather die than spend a cent of it!"
Three days later, my colleagues brought him to the crime scene.
My father, a retired cop himself, a man who had seen it all, couldn't stop his eyes from turning red.
Ten years ago, he was the proudest man alive. His son had been accepted into the police academy.
Awards, commendations... I had them all.
Then, just as quickly, it was over. Kicked out for drug use.
A disgrace.
I joined a gang.
From that day on, my father called me the scum of the earth. He said I should have died.
He threw me out and cut me out of his life.
He never knew I did it for them. For my seniors, my mentors, the ones whose deaths I had to avenge.
I always dreamed of the day I could finally tell him the truth.
"Dad, your son is not a disgrace. He's not trash. He's a narcotics officer, and he's made you proud."
But in the tenth year of my infiltration of the drug cartel, I died.
They severed the tendons in my wrists and ankles. They gouged out my eyes. My body was a canvas of their brutality.
A single knife thrust to the chest was the final punctuation.
My mission was complete. The information I sent out would bring them all down.

Slowly, the cold of blood loss faded, replaced by a strange weightlessness.
My soul detached from my broken body, drifting up into the air.
I floated across the city, back to the one place that was ever truly home.
Down below, a stooped, elderly figure walked slowly.
A lump formed in my throat. "...Dad," I choked out, a sound no one could hear.
He didn't hear me. He just kept walking.
Mr. Henderson, our neighbor, saw him and smiled, a snake's smile. "Hey, Samuel. Haven't seen your boy around lately. Where's he at?"
My father's face, which had been placid, instantly hardened. He spat on the ground. "I don't have a son! Haven't for ten years! And if I did, he's probably dead in a ditch somewhere by now!"
"It'd be a blessing for the Croft family name if that bastard finally kicked the bucket!"
A sharp pain, worse than the knife, twisted in my chest.
For ten years, it had been the same. Every rare visit home, the same words.
Two Thanksgivings ago, I brought groceries, hoping for one peaceful meal.
The door opened, and his hand cracked across my face. "Get out! I don't want your filthy things!"
I forced a smile, my cheek stinging. "Dad... just one meal. I'll leave right after."
He grabbed the trash can by the door and dumped it over my head in front of everyone.
"Don't call me Dad! I don't have a son like you! You're worse than an animal! You're better off dead out there! Never step foot in this house again!"
Sour garbage and old leftovers covered me. The neighbors whispered.
"Jeez, old Samuel is really harsh."
"What do you know? His kid's a junkie, a thief. He deserves it!"
My face burned with shame.
That night, I sat on a park bench in the freezing cold, covered in filth, a blizzard starting to fall around me.

My heart was colder than the snow.
Mr. Henderson's chuckle brought me back to the present. I knew he was doing it on purpose.
He was the one my dad, a retired Marine, had beaten up years ago for harassing a woman.
He never forgot. He always knew exactly where to stick the knife.
"Come on, Samuel," Henderson sneered. "No matter what he is, he's still your blood, right? Still your son."
My father's face was a mask of fury. "I have no such son," he growled through clenched teeth. "A degenerate like that... why doesn't God just strike him down with lightning!"
He stormed off.
I floated beside him, watching his pressed-thin lips tremble, watching his eyes slowly turn red.
The pain in my soul was unbearable.
Tears I could no longer physically shed streamed down my face. I finally whispered the words I'd held back for a decade.
"Dad... I'm sorry."
My father got home and sat on the sofa, breathing heavily, staring into space for a long time.
Then, with a great effort, he stood up and walked to the bookshelf. From the very bottom shelf, he pulled out a small, worn folder.
I froze. It was my acceptance letter to the police academy.
His hand trembled as he opened it. His rough, aged fingers traced the words on the paper.
"Julian Croft," he read aloud, his voice raspy. "Has been accepted... to become a cadet officer."
A wave of grief so immense it felt like a second death washed over me.
I remembered that day, running home, waving the letter. "Dad! Dad! I got in!"
He was younger then, his back straight and proud. He ran to meet me, his face beaming.
He held the letter like it was a holy relic. "Good! My boy! You're my pride and joy!"
That day, his laughter echoed through the entire neighborhood.

"Like father, like son," everyone said. "Samuel's boy is going to be a cop!"
No one could have predicted that by my second semester, I'd be expelled for drug use.
The day I came home with my bags, I knelt on the floor as he beat me with his belt until it broke.
From that day on, he never held his head high in the neighborhood again.
His back, straight for decades, became stooped. He, the life of every block party, locked himself away.
He was afraid of the talk, of the pity, even the well-intentioned kind.
This cheerful old man shut himself off from the world.
For ten years.
And I walked a path of darkness, deeper and deeper into the criminal underworld.
At first, he'd yell, he'd hit. Then... he realized he couldn't control me anymore. He gave up.
He stopped calling. He wouldn't even open the door for me.
Father and son. We became enemies.
To see him holding that letter now... I couldn't believe he'd kept it.
The ten years of sorrow he'd hidden so deep inside him erupted, hitting me like a physical blow.
I could almost see him, night after night, holding this letter, weeping in silence. The image was a bullet to my soul.
My sister, Clara, walked in to find him with tears in his eyes.
He quickly wiped his face.
She knew better than to mention it. "Dad, what do you want for dinner? I'll cook."
He just shook his head.
Clara went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. The sight of it, fully stocked, made her pause.
"Dad, was Julian here?"

His face darkened instantly. "He came by three days ago. Forced his way in and bought a ton of stuff."
"Who wants his things? I'd probably lose years off my life eating food he bought!"
Clara sighed. "Dad, Julian comes home less and less. Every time he does, you either hit him or curse him. Why do you two have to live like this?"
It was true. In ten years, I could count my visits home on one hand.
But three days ago, for a very specific reason, I came home for the last time.
I'd filled the fridge to bursting.
My father's eyes were full of disgust. "Take your things and get out! There's poison in that food. One bite would kill me!"
The words were harsh, but I acted as if I hadn't heard them.
I cooked a full meal, a feast. Then, I put on my best smile. "Dad, we haven't had a drink together in ten years. Let your son have a few with you."
For some reason, that day, he didn't chase me out with a broom.
He sat down, his face a thundercloud.
I raised my glass. "Dad," I started, my voice low. "It's been ten years. I know I've hurt you, shamed you."
"I don't care if you believe me or not, but I truly had my reasons."
The glass in his hand slammed down on the table, shattering the stem. "Reasons? I'm old, not blind! What reason makes a man quit the force to become a junkie? What reason keeps him from his home for a decade? What reason turns Samuel Croft's son into a disgrace to society?!"
The veins in my forehead throbbed with shame. I couldn't say a word.
His thin, frail hand slammed the table, each word a drop of blood from his heart. "I'm asking you! What did I teach you when you were a boy? What is the Croft family code?"
I lowered my head, my eyes burning.
"Not for glory, not for fame, but to live a life without shame."
The moment the words left my mouth, he slapped me, hard.
"And did you?! I'm asking you, Julian! Is your conscience clear?!"
My ears rang. The emotions I had suppressed for ten years exploded.

I shot up from my chair, roaring, out of control. "EVERYTHING I HAVE EVER DONE, I DID WITH A CLEAR CONSCIENCE!"
My father stared at me, a look of utter despair on his face. He was looking at a stranger.
After a long, painful silence, he finally believed it. The person in front of him was no longer the son he had raised and loved.
His hand, trembling by his side, clenched into a fist, then fell limp.
"Get out," he whispered, his voice broken.
"I, Samuel Croft, do not have a son."
"From this day forward, my son is dead to me."
"Get out. And never come back."
That was our last meeting.
I fled the house like a fugitive. I ran to the park where he used to push me on the swings and made the call I had been dreading.
"Captain," I begged, my voice cracking. "I'm asking you, please, let this be the last one. Let the mission end after this."
"I can't take it anymore."
"I want to come home..."
Clara, knowing none of this, rummaged through the fridge.
Suddenly, a square, black plastic bag deep inside caught her eye. She pulled it out, opened it, and froze.
Fifty thousand dollars.
My entire life's savings.
I knew my father's pride. If I gave him the money directly, he'd never accept it.
This was the only way.
My plan was simple. If I survived the next three days, I'd come back, tell him everything, and give him the money myself.
If I didn't... this would be all I could leave him.

Clara was stunned. Her hands shook as she brought the stacks of cash to our father.
"Dad... this... did Julian leave this for you?"
He stared, then his face contorted in rage. "Throw it out! God knows where that money came from! I don't want his money!"
"Dad, don't be like this," Clara pleaded. "It was a gesture of love. This is a lot of money. He must have worked hard for it. You can't just throw it away!"
*It's blood money, Dad,* I screamed in my mind. *I earned it with my life!*
But her words were useless.
My father's eyes were bloodshot. He snatched the bag and strode toward the door. "I don't want his love! I don't have a son! I won't spend a penny of his filthy money! I'm throwing it out!"
He wrenched the door open and froze.
Standing on our doorstep, in perfect formation, were several uniformed police officers.
The one in front was just raising her hand to knock.
When she saw my father, she straightened up instantly, her own eyes red.
"Attention!" she commanded, her voice thick with emotion. "Salute!"
My father saw the police and instinctively frowned. "Is it Julian? Did he get into trouble again? You're here to arrest him?"
"He's not home. If he comes back, I'll drag him to the station myself!"
The officer in charge, Captain Eva Rostova, gently shook her head. Her composure broke before she could even speak.
"Mr. Croft... we're Julian's colleagues."
The words hung in the air. My father stared, uncomprehending. He knew the words, but strung together like that, they made no sense.
"...What did you say?"
A tear finally escaped and rolled down Rostova's cheek.
"In an undercover operation to dismantle a drug cartel, your son, Officer Julian Croft, was killed in the line of duty."

First, search for and download the Novellia app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "211473" to read the entire book.