My True Family Found Me, But Chose the Impostor

When my parents finally found me, I had just returned from overseas and was tending to my grandfather’s neglected land—clearing the overgrowth, turning soil, and trying to breathe life back into a place forgotten by time.

They saw me like that: tanned from the sun, covered in sweat and dirt, looking more like an old village farmer than the son they’d lost.

The moment Lisha Park laid eyes on me, her face crumpled. My features mirrored hers too closely—seventy percent, they’d later say.

Tears welled in her eyes. “Child… we’re your parents,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You’ve suffered so much. Come home with me.”

She reached for my hand and gasped softly when she saw the fresh cut from the sickle. Her tears fell like rain. I looked at the small group behind them and sighed quietly. So… they’d finally come.

——

A short distance away, my bodyguards stood watch. I waved them off with a slight gesture, signaling that they needn’t follow.

After neatly stacking the sickles, hoes, and unplanted seedlings, I dusted off my hands. “I’ll go back and clean up,” I said calmly. “It’s messy. No need for you all to follow.”

But Lisha insisted. She had to see where I lived. And the others—the father, Kester, and the sisters, Heidi, Pauleen—reluctantly followed.

At the village entrance stood a weathered shack, its structure barely holding together. Rats scurried past as we approached. From the house next door, pigs snorted loudly, and the smell of manure made everyone behind me cover their noses.

“Is this… livable?” Kester asked, his face darkening with a flash of disdain.

I smiled faintly. “I’ve lived here for over a decade. Never once found it unbearable.”

Inside, the space was cramped—just a bed, a makeshift stove of bricks, and a small wooden cabinet. An old electric fan was the only appliance. Lisha’s eyes welled up again. She turned away, unable to look any longer.

Meanwhile, Heidi and Pauleen stepped outside, visibly disgusted.

I picked up my bag, shoved a few changes of clothes into it, and quietly followed them out.

“Kingston, heading out again?” Aunt Korrine called from across the road, a bag of pig feed in hand. She grinned when she saw me.

“Yes, Aunt Korrine. My family finally found me. I’m going back with them,” I replied with a nod.

She disappeared into her house and returned with a bag of loquats, stuffing them into my arms. “For the road,” she said warmly.

I smiled. Aunt Korrine still remembered. As a boy, I used to climb her loquat tree, stealing fruit and laughter. Those were good days.

I was found in a garbage bin—just a breath away from death. My grandfather, Charles Wade, picked me up, brushed off the dust, and named me Kingston.

I was weak, often sick, but the villagers—kind, rough, generous—raised me like their own. Grandpa said I had a destiny for fortune and trained me in the art of divination. It was through that I made a name for myself. I built a career, wealth, reputation.

But just as I reached success, Grandpa passed away. I kept his old house, returning every year. It’s where my best memories live.

When Aunt Korrine called me “Kingston,” I noticed the Park Family flinch. They looked uncomfortable.

I had expected them to show up eventually. Three years ago, I secretly revealed to them that the so-called young master of the Park Family was a fake—and that I was the real one. But they didn’t chase the imposter out. They ignored the truth.

And now here they were, wanting me to come back.

On the ride home, Heidi sat beside me. She shifted as far from me as possible, clearly worried my “village filth” might stain her.

She sneered, “Let’s get one thing clear: the Park Family is respected. Don’t bring your backward ways into our house. And you’d better follow our rules.”

I glanced at her, unfazed, and pulled a loquat from my bag. I took a bite, slowly, savoring its sweetness.

Lisha asked how I had been living all these years. I told her, simply, “Farming.”

She kept dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

She never even questioned it—how someone who farmed every day had hands with no calluses. Just one shallow cut.