“I can find you a tiny apartment,” he said. “But you need to leave fast. These people are dangerous.”
He showed them bleak, overpriced places far away. They refused, terrified.
Then came the eviction notice—court-signed and final.
Believing I knew everything, convinced I had chosen to sell, and told repeatedly that I was furious with them, my parents didn’t call me.
Shame silenced them.
They packed what little they thought was theirs and left. Daniel handed them five hundred dollars. “I’ll sort something out soon.”
That was two months ago.
After making sure my parents were asleep and safe, I left the hotel.
The anger inside me had hardened.
I went to his house—the one I’d paid for.
The lights were on.
Daniel opened the door in a silk robe, smiling until he saw my face. “Brother! Why didn’t you call?”
I walked past him.
The house felt sterile. Cold furniture. Expensive smoke. Nothing like the home I’d created for my parents.
“I’m not your brother,” I said.
He said nothing.
I told him everything—quietly, precisely. The rain. My mother’s fear. My father’s broken voice.
He snapped. “They’re ungrateful! You were always the favorite! I got nothing! This house is compensation for years of being ignored!”
There was no regret. Only envy.
“You have twenty-four hours,” I said, “to return every dollar you stole and transfer the property back to me.
If not, you’ll face charges for fraud and elder abuse—and I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly who you are.”
The next day, with lawyers present, he complied. The house returned. The money was repaid.
But the damage ran deeper.
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