That apartment represented a million dollars—the total liquidation of assets from three generations of my family. And they handed it over to outsiders with zero blood relation? No matter how I tried to rationalize their "selflessness," the math didn't add up.
My father's face turned a violent shade of red. Humiliated, he lashed out.
*Smack!*
The sharp crack of his palm against my cheek silenced our table. My skin burned. The sting radiated across my jaw.
"I'm not dead yet, and you dare speak to me like this?" he roared.
I looked at his ferocious expression, and a strange urge to laugh bubbled up in my chest. It was a hollow, self-mocking sound. Being born into this family was nothing short of a tragedy.
My mother looked at me with disappointment. "Even if you're upset, you have to pick the right occasion. Making a scene on such a happy day... people will think you're immature."
*Immature.* Right.
I nodded slowly. Picked up a wine glass from the table. Turned to the happy couple, Alex and Maya.
"I wish you a long life together." My smile didn't reach my eyes. "May you be of one heart, forever."
I drained the glass in one gulp, turned on my heel, and walked out of the hotel.
My mother made a move to chase after me, but my father held her back. His voice carried to the door. "How did I raise such a thing? He is simply a misfortune to this family!"
*Misfortune.* The word branded itself into my mind.
Since I was little, I was "immature" because I believed that suffering losses was a virtue. I suffered alongside them, time and again. During the New Year, my classmates wore brand-new outfits while I played in threadbare clothes. My parents would rather donate their entire salary to remote mountain villages than buy their own son a new jacket.
In middle school, I placed third in the entire grade. They promised me a laptop. What I eventually received was an empty shell; the internal components had been stripped out and given to my cousin because "Uncle's child is going to college and needs it more."
They could be public-spirited saints; I didn't oppose that. But could they not have raised their own child first?
From age three until college, I practically lived at my grandparents' house. My parents had time, yet they always found excuses, claiming they were "too busy." Growing up in that environment, loneliness became my only constant companion.
They spoke so prettily, claiming it was all for me.
If they didn't want to raise me, why did they have me?
Only after I graduated college and started working did they think to bring me back into the fold.
I returned to my rental apartment and lay in the dark for hours. That evening, my phone buzzed. It was my uncle, Mason Larsen.
"Gabriel, you fought with your parents, didn't you?" Mason sighed. "After all, they are your parents. They gave birth to you. What they did today was a bit excessive, sure, but..."
My anger, far from dissipating, flared up again.
"Uncle Mason," I cut in. "I lived with you and Grandparents growing up. You don't deny that, do you?"
A pause. Two seconds of dead air. "That is true."
"Then tell me, after they gave birth to me, did they actually raise me?"
Silence stretched over the line. Uncle Mason was speechless. I knew my mother must have called him, begging him to talk some sense into me. After all, I had spent more time with Mason than with my own parents.
"They were busy back then," Mason mumbled weakly. "They didn't have time. Now they're about to retire..."
"If you're here to persuade me to make up with them, forget it." I didn't let him finish. "In their world, the only thing that matters is their reputation."
If I hadn't been starved for parental affection, if I hadn't genuinely missed them, I never would have moved back in with them after college. But those two years together only highlighted the chasm between us—in thinking, in habits, in values.
"Uncle Mason, do you have anything else to say?"
He remained silent.
