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.

Suddenly, my father's roar blasted through the phone speaker. He must have been listening in.

"I raised you to adulthood, and this is how you repay me? You ungrateful wretch! A person cannot be this selfish—look at what you've become!"

My mother's voice filtered through from the background. "Alright, say a little less. Gabriel is still young. He doesn't understand."

I snapped.

"Mom, I am not young. I'm twenty-five. I'm at the age where I should be getting married." My voice came out steady. Cold. "If I hold my wedding this year, have you thought about where we will live?"

I didn't wait for an answer.

"Aria Weber and I met in college. We've been together for nearly six years. Her family isn't asking for a bride price; they only hoped our family could provide a marital home. How do you want me to explain this to them now?"

Every word came from the bottom of my heart. I wanted them to understand the gravity of what they had done.

Before my mother could speak, my father replied with chilling indifference.

"Can't you live at home? Is a three-bedroom apartment not enough for you? That way, your mother can help with cooking and chores."

I was so angry I actually laughed.

It was hopeless. They were beyond reason.

I didn't bother saying goodbye. I just hung up.

Perhaps I, their so-called son, was born simply to be sacrificed on the altar of their vanity.

Not long after, my phone rang again. It was my mother, calling secretly. Her voice was hushed, likely whispering from the balcony.

"Gabriel... I didn't know you were planning to get married this year. Why didn't you tell us earlier?"

"Would telling you have made a difference?" I asked. "You still would have given the apartment to Alex and Maya first."

It wasn't a matter of timing. It was a matter of priority. My father cared too much about face, and his rigid thinking meant his own family always paid the price.

"Those things are in the past." She brushed aside decades of neglect with a single sentence. "Like your dad said, move in with us. Living together is convenient. Isn't that good?"

*Convenient?* Convenient for whom?

When I didn't respond, she offered another solution. "Then your dad and I will move out and rent a place. We can renovate the old house for you and Aria."

"Mom, do you think this is just about a roof over my head?" Exasperation bled into my voice. "The apartment you gave away was the home Aria and I agreed on. I told her it was bought. We planned the renovation style together. And now? It's being lived in by someone else. What do you think Aria and her family will think of us?"

My mother acted as if my concerns were trivial.

"It's not like you don't know Alex and Maya. They are practically your siblings. Their family was so poor they couldn't pay tuition, yet they worked so hard. We couldn't stand by and watch. We just wanted to help a bit."

*Help a bit.*

Saying it out loud, didn't she find it ridiculous? What I had, they had. What I didn't have, they had.

I didn't want to drag this out. I just wanted my money back—my savings and my grandparents' legacy.

"How about this." I cut to the chase. "You tell Alex and Maya's families to scrape the money together. Give Grandpa and Grandma's money, and my twenty thousand, back to me. As for whatever you poured into that apartment, you can ask for it back whenever you want. That has nothing to do with me anymore."

My mother had called hoping I would apologize to my father and accept a compromise. Seeing that I wouldn't yield, she sighed, her voice heavy with disappointment.

"Gabriel... if those two families could scrape together that kind of money, would they have needed to borrow a marital home from us in the first place?"