The Fake Son's Victory

My parents had always played favorites.

On my birthday, the house was completely empty.

Meanwhile, my older brother, Howard Moore, posted a nine-photo grid on social media, showing off a huge birthday cake. In every picture, Mom and Dad were gathered around him, smiling like they couldn’t be prouder.

I called them.

Laughter poured through the phone from the other end. Still, I gathered every bit of courage I had and asked softly, “Why didn’t I even get a happy birthday?”

The line went silent for a second.

Then Mom’s bright, smiling voice came through.

“Because Howard is handsome. Taking him out makes us look good. But you? Those hooded eyes and that bulbous nose. Honestly, if we didn’t feel sorry for you, we would’ve gotten rid of you a long time ago.”

Howard took the phone from her and said gently, “You know you’re adopted, right? Did you really think you were one of us?”

I stood there for a long time, too stunned to move.

After that, I stopped talking.

But deep down, I still craved the love of my biological parents. So I secretly made a post online, looking for my biological family.

I didn’t expect Howard to find it.

He took a screenshot and sent it to the school’s anonymous gossip account.

“The fake Moore kid is looking for his parents. Anyone lose an ugly little kid?”

I cried for a long time.

Then late that night, I walked past their bedroom door, which had been left slightly open.

Howard’s laughter floated out, clear and bright.

“He actually believed it! This is hilarious! Let’s hire someone to pretend to be his parents. I can’t wait to see him on his knees, begging us.”

Dad took a sip of his tea.

“Do whatever you want.”

Mom added, “Just don’t go too far.”

Outside the door, my fingers slowly loosened around the doorknob.

Howard Moore moved fast.

The very next day during recess, he called me out of the classroom right in front of everyone. “Your birth mom is here,” he announced, a mocking smirk plastered across his face.

A woman huddled in the corner of the hallway. Her fingers twisted nervously around the stretched-out hem of her faded shirt as she stammered, “H-Hello, Mr. Caleb…”

Howard laughed.

“Why are you calling him Mr. Caleb? You should call him your precious son.”

As he joked, he kept watching my face, waiting for my reaction.

I didn’t say anything.

But our classmates crowded around us, gasping and shouting. Phone cameras were already raised, their lenses flashing under the lights.

“Oh my God, Caleb Moore, isn’t that your family’s housekeeper, Mrs. Zimmer?”

“The real heir and the fake heir have been right next to us this whole time?”

“Hurry, record this!”

Countless looks of disgust landed on me.

It was as if I really were the fake heir from some drama, the one who had stolen someone else’s place and used his parents’ love to get away with anything.

I didn’t try to explain.

I only looked at Mrs. Zimmer and asked, “Should we do a DNA test?”

Mrs. Zimmer panicked. Her lips trembled, and she could only look to Howard for help.

“What DNA test?”

Howard grabbed my shoulders and turned me toward the glass window.

“Look at yourself. Look at those hooded eyes and that bulbous nose. You two look exactly alike. It’s like you came out of the same mold.”

Ever since I was brought back from the countryside, Howard had picked apart everything about me.

He said I was ugly.

He said I was stupid.

He said I didn’t look like Mom and Dad’s real son.

Back then, I was still too young. All I knew how to do was cry.

But the truth was, I had secretly compared us before.

When I was six, Howard smeared lipstick all over my face and took pictures of me.

Then he called me, “Ugly freak.”

Dad laughed so hard on the couch that he could barely sit up.

I cried and went to Mom, hoping she would stand up for me.

But she only said, “Howard is so handsome. Of course he’s allowed to be a little spoiled.”

I didn’t know how to argue with that.

So I stood in front of the mirror and tried my hardest to make my eyes look bigger.

Back then, I really thought things might change if my eyes became as big as Howard’s.

Maybe then I would look handsome too.

Maybe then Mom and Dad would finally like me.

When I was ten, Howard tore up my perfect test paper.

I cried as I tried to piece it back together.

Mom happened to walk by and only said, “Howard is the pride of this family. Just let him have his way.”

On my twelfth birthday, I pretended to run away from home.

I imagined Mom and Dad realizing I was missing and rushing out to find me.

But no one came.

Not even after dark.

Cold and hungry, I had no choice but to drag myself home.

When I got back, they were filming Howard doing a street dance routine.

Dad didn’t even look up.

“Had enough fun running around outside? At least you still know how to come home.”

I instinctively argued, “I wasn’t out playing…”

Howard cut me off with a smile.

“Caleb, I saw you go to the arcade with a few classmates.”

I knew he was lying.

But I had no proof.

All I could do was tremble and say, “I didn’t.”

“That’s enough,” Dad snapped impatiently. “Would Howard really make something like that up?”

My stomach growled again and again.

Only then did Mrs. Zimmer rub her hands together awkwardly and say, “I’m sorry, Mr. Caleb. We fed the leftovers to the dog.”

I was so hungry that my voice came out barely above a whisper.

“Can you make me a bowl of pasta?”

“No,” Dad said coldly. “Howard gets a midnight snack because he’s weak. Who are you to compare yourself to him?”

“But…”

I tried to explain, but Mom cut me off.

“You were the one who lost track of time playing outside. Who are you blaming? Go back to your room.”

In the middle of the night, Howard opened my bedroom door.

He stood there on purpose, biting into chips with loud, crisp crunches.

My stomach betrayed me and growled again.