I Killed My Entire Family for Revenge

On the day of my daughter's first full month, I did the unthinkable. I gently fed her a bottle filled with sleeping pills.

My parents, who had been bustling about all morning preparing for the celebration, were now lifeless. They lay in a crimson pool of blood, their once-vivid faces frozen in terror.

My wife, Elysia, who had only just emerged from confinement after childbirth, had her legs severed at the thighs. Her pale face was contorted in pain, her life hanging by a thread.

I dialed the police, my voice calm, almost kind, as I informed them of the situation. Then, I sank into the sofa and waited in silence, staring at the blood-streaked walls and the shattered remnants of our perfect life.

——

When the police arrived, I was removing the Rolex my father had given me—a symbol of the life they’d lavished upon me. The metallic stench of blood filled the room, making the officers flinch as they stepped inside.

The lead officer’s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene and my unnervingly composed demeanor. His voice cracked with fury as he barked, "Did you do this? Why?"

"We already have some preliminary information. You're their only child. The neighbors said your parents adored you, treated you like their whole world. There were no signs of conflict. What could make you do something so horrifying?"

Yes, I am their only son.

My parents were everything a child could ask for—loving, generous, and endlessly supportive. Everyone who knew us envied my life.

Even in love, I had no struggles. I married Elysia after just six months of dating, and a year after our wedding, we welcomed our beautiful daughter into the world.

Today is our baby daughter's monthly milestone dinner.

My mother woke at five in the morning, eager to ensure everything was perfect. She gave my aunt the day off, insisting on handling everything herself. At the vegetable market, she chose only the freshest ingredients, carrying heavy bags back home despite the strain on her back. Even when she was visibly tired, she refused my help, brushing off her discomfort with a smile.

After putting the groceries away, she allowed herself a brief rest before walking over to me. She gently touched my daughter’s head, her expression soft and full of love.

"You take it easy," she said, her voice tender. "Mom will cook all your favorite dishes. Let your dad handle the milk powder. You haven’t been feeling well lately, so don’t push yourself too hard. When Elysia gets back from the hospital, she can take over looking after the baby."

As she turned to leave, her eyes caught something by my pillow—a small pile of hair. She quietly picked it up and tossed it into the trash, her movements deliberate.

"It's normal to lose hair," she muttered, more to herself than me. "Don’t overthink it. Just take care of yourself, and it’ll get better with time."

Her concerned nagging made my lips curl into a faint, indifferent smile.

"Mom, I’m an adult now," I said lightly. "You don’t have to keep worrying about me. Go take care of your own things."

When I was younger, I believed every parent loved their child this way—selflessly, endlessly. It wasn’t until I started school and casually shared stories about my family with my classmates that I realized how unique my situation was.

Their envious looks told me everything. For many of them, home was a place of "stick education," where discipline overshadowed affection.

But my parents? They have always loved me without limits. In 25 years, I’ve never heard them raise their voices at me, never experienced a quarrel that left scars. Our bond feels almost unreal.

My dad sat comfortably on the sofa, watching the morning news with a relaxed demeanor. When he heard my comment, he chuckled warmly.

"Your mother is like that," he said, his voice tinged with pride. "Even when you're in your seventies or eighties, you'll still be her precious son, the pride of our old Montclair Family."

Hearing this, my mother, standing nearby, bristled with mock indignation.

"And what about you?" she retorted, crossing her arms. "Who was the one so excited last night that he couldn’t sleep, staring at his granddaughter like he’d never seen a baby before?"

Caught off guard, my dad coughed awkwardly, trying to save face.

"Why bring that up in front of our son? I just... didn’t sleep enough because I’m old."

My mother rolled her eyes and turned to me with a look of exasperation. We exchanged a conspiratorial glance, both wearing faintly amused expressions.

Fatherly love in our family has always been subtle, hidden beneath layers of pride and humor. But their love for the younger generation? That’s never been understated.

As my mother returned to the kitchen, I gazed down at my daughter’s peaceful, sleeping face, lost in thought. It was then that my father tiptoed into the room, his movements deliberate and slightly exaggerated, as if enacting a secret mission.

He placed a thick red envelope on the table in front of me with a small smirk.

"Don’t tell your mother," he said in a low voice. "This is your father’s private stash, saved over a lifetime. It’s a money envelope for my precious granddaughter’s first month celebration!"

My father always claimed his private savings were for himself, but in truth, every cent had been spent on me—be it a sports car, a motorcycle, or even real estate and luxury watches.

I accepted the envelope with a quiet smile, but neither of us spoke much after that. He turned his attention to my sleeping daughter, reaching out to tease her tiny fingers.

Before he could succeed, my mother entered with a tray of freshly washed and cut fruit.

"What are you doing here, old man?" she said, mock-scolding him. "Don’t disturb Thaddeus and the baby! Out you go—the room stinks when you’re in it."

My dad, grumbling under his breath, left reluctantly. My mother, now smiling, turned to me.

"When will Elysia arrive?" she asked. "I want to time the cooking just right."

"She’s finalizing the formalities at the hospital," I replied. "She should be here soon. Don’t rush yourself."

At the mention of Elysia, my mother’s expression softened. She glanced at her hands—bony and worn from years of care—and sighed, as though hiding some unspoken emotion.

"Thaddeus," she said after a pause, her voice tender, "Elysia is a good woman. Your dad and I can see that. Girls like her who understand and care for their husbands are rare these days. You should give in to her more. Mom and Dad won’t always be here to guide you…"

Her words stirred something in me, and I found my eyes growing red. What a good mother—so loving, so patient. I nodded solemnly, pressing my lips tightly together.

Without another word, she pulled a pure gold bracelet from her pocket and carefully slipped it onto my daughter’s tiny wrist. She held her granddaughter’s hand for a moment, admiring it with an expression of deep satisfaction.

After a while, she seemed to remember I was there. She patted the back of my hand affectionately.

"There weren’t many styles to choose from at the jewelry store," she said apologetically, "but I’ll go to another one after I finish my work and find something nice for Elysia. Giving birth is like walking through the gates of hell. We shouldn’t favor one over the other."

I smiled and thanked her, though my heart grew colder.

Mom, I’m afraid Elysia won’t be able to wait for your gift.

She didn’t notice my change in demeanor, too preoccupied with her chores. With a contented sigh, she turned and walked back to the kitchen.