My dad is a fan of tough love parenting.

When I was a kid, there was a time when I obtained full marks on two subjects. But he told me, "Your grades don't mean anything in life. If you were a true man, you'd leap down five floors without batting an eyelash."

Some time later, I was awarded for my act of bravery. But Dad scoffed in my face.

"Not even a hair is harmed on your head. Why should you be awarded anyway?"

I thought Dad wanted me to go through more training in life.

On Christmas Eve, he ditched me on a snowy mountain under the guise of wanting me to go through more training. He didn't give me a tent or a lighter.

Later on, Dad even brags about his parenting method to his relatives and friends.

"A real man should survive and thrive in a desperate situation! I told Julian that he can forget about being my son if he can't even make his way back to the summit!"

But the red dot on the GPS tracker installed in his phone hasn't moved for the past three hours.

The truth is, I've already frozen to death in the mountains. Trapped in my fist is a crumpled, torn scrap of paper.

Meanwhile, my soul is currently floating above the dining table while watching Dad brag about his tough love parenting.

Dad glanced down at his phone, and his smug smile deepened a little more.

"See? He hasn't moved in two hours."

He thrust the phone screen right in front of my uncle, Arnold Bowen, jabbing his finger at the stationary red dot a couple of times.

"This brat's definitely sulking and hiding out on some sheltered slope having a nap. I know him too well. The moment he runs into any difficulty, he wants to curl up and hide just like his mother.

"I told him that if he doesn't make it to the summit by midnight tonight, I'm cutting off his living expenses for the next semester."

I floated above the dining table, bitterness flooding through me.

The blizzard hit out of nowhere, and I lost all sense of direction.

As hypothermia took hold, I started hallucinating. I even tore off that flimsy windbreaker Dad had grudgingly given me.

Right before I died, I still fantasized that Dad might come to save me.

Uncle Arnold's wife, Ethel Gallagher, shrank her neck and glanced at the howling snowstorm outside the window.

"Trevor, this snow looks serious. The news has already issued a yellow alert. Has Julian dressed warmly enough?"

Dad swallowed a piece of steak, then raised his glass and took a satisfied sip.

"I gave him a windbreaker, and he's got thermal underwear underneath. That's more than enough. A man's gotta be able to handle the cold.

"Back in my days in the military, I used to run three miles shirtless in -22-degree weather. Now, that's what I call tough."

I sneered from midair.

His so-called shirtless three-mile run was nothing but a drunken tall tale he bragged about to his army buddies. He'd turned his own drunken fantasies into truth and then mercilessly imposed them on me.

But Dad, I was already stone-cold dead.

I floated right in front of Dad. I wanted to tell him that I had tried my hardest, that I had wanted to keep climbing.

But my lungs felt like they were exploding, each breath like swallowing knives. My legs had gone numb long ago, all because of the single-layer hiking boots he forced me to wear to toughen up my will.

I screamed right in his face, "Dad, I'm cold! So cold!"

After muttering something under his breath, he picked up his phone and held down the voice message button.

"Julian, quit playing dead. I see your location hasn't moved. Are you staging a sit-in protest against me? Well, let me tell you—it won't work.

"If you're not at the summit by midnight tonight, don't even think about going back to that crappy college of yours. You can go work on a construction site instead!"

His finger lifted, and the message was sent.

I stared at that familiar chat window. The last message was still the one I'd sent him three hours ago.

"Dad, I can't breathe. Is the medicine in your bag? I think I forgot to bring it."

His reply was, "Medicine? I already threw it away. That stuff's a crutch for the weak. Just tough it out—it'll pass."

In that moment, I fell into utter despair.

I kept climbing in the snow until the last trace of warmth drained from my body.

Now, floating in midair, I stared at the face of the man I had called "Dad" for 20 years. Suddenly, he felt like a complete stranger.

This was my dad. To him, my life was worth less than a plate of appetizers or a topic to brag about in front of relatives.

I turned to look out the window.

The darkness had swallowed everything. And out there, my body was slowly stiffening into a block of ice.

But in here, glasses clinked and warmth flowed freely.

How wonderful.

Since Dad loved tough love and desperate situations so much, then he must also loved the Christmas gift I'd prepared for him, right?

Just then, urgent pounding on the door rang out. Mixed with the piercing sound of the doorbell, it instantly drowned out the cheers coming from the TV.

The laughter in the private room came to an abrupt halt.

Uncle Arnold's hand trembled slightly, sending ash from his cigarette onto his pants.

Dad frowned in displeasure and slammed his fork heavily onto the table.

"Who is it? It's Christmas Eve—why are they acting like they're announcing death? Hey, waiter! What's going on? How can you just let anyone in?"

The door to the private room burst open.

My mother, Sharon Schmitt, stood there covered in snow, her hair plastered messily against her face.

"Trevor, why can't I reach Julian? Why is his phone turned off?"

Dad took one look at Mom in this state, his brow furrowing deeply as he leaned back in his chair. Without even bothering to stand up, he leisurely pulled out a napkin and wiped his mouth.

Dad sneered. "What's wrong with you? Don't you know it's Christmas Eve? You think you can just show up here and cause trouble? What, that pretty boy dumped you, and now you're back for money?"

Mom rushed to the table, bracing herself against it. Her fingernails dug into the wood as her knuckles turned white.

"I'm asking you—where is Julian? It's snowing so hard, and the news said the mountain roads are closed! Where did you take him?"

Dad lifted his glass and took a small sip, his gaze dripping with contempt.

"He's in training—real man training. What's the matter? You feeling sorry for him now? If you hadn't spoiled him rotten back then, turning him into a useless kid who can't lift a thing, would I have to go through all this trouble to toughen him up?"

Mom's voice shot up, shrill and piercing. "Training?"

She grabbed the wine bottle from the table and smashed it hard on the floor.

Glass shards flew everywhere, wine spilling across the floor.

The relatives gasped and shrieked in fright.

My aunt, Geraldine Kane, covered her ears and ducked behind her husband, my uncle, Dennis Bowen.

"Trevor, are you even human? Julian has asthma! Allergic asthma! The doctor said he absolutely cannot be exposed to cold or engage in strenuous exercise! Are you trying to kill him by taking him to a snowy mountain?"

Mom's roar echoed through the private room.

Dad's expression instantly darkened. He stood up and shoved Mom hard in the shoulder.

Already unsteady on her feet, Mom lost her balance and fell onto the pile of broken glass.

Her palms were cut open, blood seeping out. But she simply glared at Dad.

Dad pointed at her, spittle flying as he roared, "Asthma? That's nothing but a rich people's disease! You spoiled it into him! All that crap about not being able to stand the cold or exercise is just an excuse!

"As long as Julian has enough willpower, he can fight through anything. I'm going to freeze that pampering right out of him today!"

Mom trembled with rage, tears streaming down her face.

She scrambled up and, ignoring the blood on her hands, lunged for Dad's phone on the table.

"The location? Where's his GPS location right now? Show me!"

Quick as a flash, Dad slammed his hand down on the phone, then swung his arm back and slapped Mom across the face.

The blow was vicious. Mom stumbled back several steps, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of her mouth.

"You think I won't put you in your place?" Dad roared. "This is my way of raising him! It's not something an outsider like you has a say in! Get out! Now!"

Finally unable to take it any longer, Uncle Dennis stood up to intervene.

"Calm down, Sharon. Trevor knows what he's doing. All of us saw that GPS just now. We've been keeping an eye on it the whole time."

Dad gave a cold snort and unlocked his phone. Then, he opened the app and tossed it in front of Mom.

"He's doing just fine at Camp One."

Mom swiped at the screen to check the historical tracking data.

Suddenly, her face went deathly pale, and she slumped limply into the chair.

"Julian hasn't moved for three hours! Even the toughest man would freeze solid after staying still in this freezing weather for three hours. Something's definitely happened to him!" Mom cried.

Dad snatched the phone back without even looking at it. "Bullshit! He's resting to conserve his energy. What the hell do you know about wilderness survival?

"This is called tactical adjustment. You think everyone's like you, complaining about being tired after taking two steps?"

Mom shook her head, her voice trembling beyond control. "No, Julian told me if he ever stopped in the snow for more than half an hour, it'd mean he couldn't go any further. He made me promise to come for him. That was our agreement."

Dad cut her off impatiently. "Agreement? That's an excuse for the weak! I knew it—that punk's been contacting you behind my back. Fine, so you're working together now to trick me into going up there to get him? Not a chance!"

Mom fell to her knees, clutching Dad's legs. "Trevor, this is a life we're talking about! I'm begging you. I'll do anything you want— just go check on him or call search and rescue. Please, I'm begging you!"

Dad kicked Mom hard in the chest, sending her sprawling to the floor.

"Get off me! Stop making a fool of yourself here! It's Christmas Eve, for god's sake. Everyone's supposed to be happy, and you have to come and ruin it! Search and rescue? Are you trying to humiliate me even more?

"If I call them, how's that gonna look? The whole world will know I couldn't even toughen up my own son!"

Floating in mid-air, I watched Dad kick Mom down, the blood from her hands staining the carpet red.

I wanted to rush over and hug her, to tell her, "Mom, stop begging. It's useless. Dad never cared about my life. He only cared about his pride and his authority."

I reached out to wipe the tears from Mom's face, but my hand passed right through her cheek. That feeling of powerlessness was more agonizing than death itself.

I was sorry to Mom. It was all my fault for being so useless. I never should've listened to Dad. I shouldn't have agreed to come to this godforsaken place just for some pathetic allowance or for him to actually look at me like I mattered.

I should've listened to Mom and escaped from Dad long ago, even if it meant working odd jobs or begging on the streets.

But it was all too late now.

"The police! I'm going to call the police!"

Mom picked herself up off the floor, trembling as she fumbled in her soaked pocket for her phone. Her fingers shook uncontrollably from the cold and fear, and it took her several tries just to unlock it.

"Don't you dare!" Dad strode over in two steps, snatching the phone from Mom's hand. He then hurled it viciously against the corner of the wall.

The phone's screen shattered into pieces, and the battery even popped out.

Dad jabbed his finger at Mom's face and yelled, "Why are you calling the police? Since when do the police have the right to interfere with a father disciplining his son?

"This is a family matter! Are you trying to embarrass me in front of all my relatives? Or are you trying to send me to jail? How can you be so vile?"

Screaming and crying, Mom lunged toward the corner, desperately trying to piece her phone back together. But the scattered components were already beyond saving.

"You're the vile one! That's your own son we're talking about!"

Uncle Arnold frowned and put down his fork. "Trevor, maybe you should give Julian a call. Three hours without moving really is a bit—"

Dad shot him a displeased glare. "Arnold, don't tell me you're falling for that sentimental nonsense too? Julian's just lazy and waiting for me to go get him.

"If I cave now, all the hardship from before will have been for nothing. This is called psychological warfare, understand?"

Just then, a crisp notification sound suddenly came from Dad's phone on the table. It was the sound of the GPS location updating.

Everyone's eyes instantly locked onto the phone.

Dad picked it up and glanced at the screen. A grin immediately spread across his face, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling deeply.

"He moved! He moved!" He held the phone up high, laughing. "See that? He climbed up more than 100 yards!"