Chapter 7: The Current Situation
Although the incident in which Frank left Fiona, Lip, and Ian alone in a park during winter left him with deep guilt, it didn't lead to any lasting change. He didn't turn over a new leaf—far from it.
That wasn't the last time something like that happened. It was just the first. Frank continued down the same path, over and over again. He had long adopted a mindset of utter self-abandonment, without the slightest intention of reform.
His wife had run off. Frank, for his part, never left—but he might as well have. He was a drunk and a junkie, someone who only ever took and never gave. He never provided for his children—not a cent, not an ounce of help.
To be honest, those six kids were never really raised by Frank.
It was Fiona who took on everything—both the roles of father and mother. She worked herself to the bone to raise her siblings, often dealing with everything from feeding them to cleaning up their messes. Not only did Frank never lift a finger, sometimes he even made things worse.
To keep the family afloat and her siblings in school, Fiona dropped out early and started working multiple jobs—three, sometimes four a day. Meanwhile, Frank collected his disability checks and spent it all on booze and drugs. Not once did he contribute to the family.
That says everything you need to know about what kind of pathetic excuse for a father Frank was.
It was no wonder the kids treated him with coldness and distrust.
Debbie and Carl were still young—under ten years old—and hadn't fully matured emotionally. They hadn't yet developed the same resentment. But once they got older, like Lip and Ian—teenagers capable of understanding what Frank really was—there was no doubt they'd grow to resent him just as much.
"Frank... you really are a piece of shit," Frank muttered to himself.
In his past life, Frank had longed for a child and never had one. He couldn't fathom how someone could treat their kids this way. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to punch the former Frank in the face.
"They're such good kids... How could you be so heartless?
Now that I've become you, I'll carry the responsibilities you never did."
He had fully taken over this body. He was Frank now. And he had made up his mind—he was going to change everything.
First, he had to think about how to begin that change.
His situation was dire. His relationship with the kids was fragile. The younger ones like Debbie were still approachable, but the older ones had zero trust in him. Their rejection ran deep.
He needed to find a way to mend those broken relationships.
Then there was the money issue—which was just as urgent. The family was dirt poor. Just the way they all chipped in to pay for electricity that morning said it all.
The family had only one breadwinner—Fiona. Four kids were still in school, and one was a newborn. The kids, even the little ones like Debbie and Carl, were trying to help earn money. The family teetered on the edge of bankruptcy every single day.
Everything else could wait—these two things were priority: rebuilding trust and finding money.
As Frank was deep in thought, his body began to move on its own. Almost instinctively, he twisted open a beer bottle, flipped on the TV, slouched into the couch like a lifeless doll, propped his feet on the coffee table, placed a plate on his stomach, started eating eggs and toast, and washed it all down with a gulp of beer. The whole routine flowed with unnatural ease.
"...!!"
By the time Frank realized what was happening, he was already mid-chew, beer halfway down his throat.
Cough! Cough!
Choking on the beer, he began to cough violently.
"What the hell?!" Frank stared at the beer in his hand, confused.
He hadn't meant to drink or watch TV. He was busy thinking. Yet his body had acted entirely on its own.
"Goddamn it, Frank!" he cursed.
It all made sense now. He wasn't the old Frank anymore—but this body had been doing the same things for years. Habits, built over decades, didn't just disappear.
It was like how a chef could still cook instinctively even after losing his memory. It was called muscle memory.
That was exactly what had happened here. These automatic movements—asking Debbie for a beer earlier, cracking one open now—were reflexes. Habits passed down by the original Frank through muscle memory.
He had to fight these habits. He had to make a conscious effort to override what Frank had left behind.
But that would take time. For now, he needed to focus on the most urgent issue: making money.
Oddly enough, the house itself wasn't in terrible condition. They weren't homeless—not really. They still had a roof over their heads, which was more than many in their neighborhood could say. Real homeless people lived under bridges or in parks, with cardboard boxes and tarp shelters.
The house was spacious but practically worthless—it was located in South Side Chicago.
That meant one thing: the ghetto. A rough area filled with racial tension, gang violence, and urban decay. Naturally, property values were low.
Frank couldn't sell the house for money even if he wanted to. It was all they had. Without it, they'd be out on the street.
Still, with no money, what was he supposed to do?
If he were the old Frank, he'd immediately think of scams, theft, and fraud. But this Frank wasn't that kind of man. In his past life, he was a law-abiding citizen.
That left only one real option: get a job.
But how? He was a man in his fifties, no diploma, no work history, a resume that was just a blank page. Aside from being old, he had no marketable skills. What job could he possibly get? Maybe some low-end day labor?
"Wait…"
Frank suddenly froze.
He just remembered—he couldn't get a real job.
He was classified as disabled!
Whatever scam the old Frank had pulled, it had worked—he was officially listed as "permanently unable to work." That status was the reason he got monthly disability checks. And not a small amount either—$674 a month, which was more than what he could earn from random day jobs.
If he took a legitimate job, he'd lose that monthly benefit. Not worth it.
"No proper job then... Guess I'll have to work off the books. Maybe some cash gigs?" Frank muttered.
Sitting around wasn't going to solve anything. He cleaned himself up and headed out the door.
"Hey, Gary! Long time no see!"
Frank stepped into an office and greeted a balding, middle-aged man with glasses.
"Frank? Wow... now this is rare," Gary said, clearly surprised.
"You showing up here of all places?"
"What can I say? I missed you. Got any work for me?" Frank said casually, pulling out a chair.
"Your disability check got cut off or something?" Gary asked suspiciously.