That Christmas Eve, the biting cold of Ohio seeped through my thin jacket as I stood before the glossy oak door. The phone in my hand was still warm from my grandfather’s brief call. “Dorian, come over right now. I’m at your parents’ new house,” he had said, his voice brimming with a joy that felt like a wonderful secret.
Grandpa Will, a successful businessman from Chicago, rarely had time to visit. Just the thought of seeing him made me smile. I pushed the door open, and the warmth from the fireplace and the savory aroma of roasted meat enveloped me. Grandpa sat at the head of the dining table, his eyes sparkling when he saw me. He stood and hugged me tightly, his familiar woody cologne making me forget all my exhaustion in an instant.
“Dorian, do you like this house?” he asked, his voice full of pride, as if he had just handed me a priceless treasure.
“Yes, it’s a beautiful house, Grandpa,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “But it’s my parents’ house.”
A moment of deafening silence followed. Grandpa’s face stiffened, his eyes darting from me to my father, Gregory, then to my stepmother, Susan. My father, who always maintained a calm demeanor, suddenly turned pale, his hand trembling as he held his wine glass. Susan coughed, forcing a strange smile, but her eyes glinted with panic.
“Your parents’ house?” Grandpa repeated, his voice dropping as cold and sharp as the night wind outside. “Dorian, explain yourself.”
I didn’t understand, but a sense of unease surged within me. I glanced at my father, waiting for an explanation, but he only lowered his head, avoiding my gaze.
Susan quickly interjected, “Will, there must be a misunderstanding. This is the family’s house.”
But Grandpa didn’t look at her. He looked at me, and in that moment, I knew a terrible secret was about to be revealed.
My name is Dorian Marsten. My story is about the years I lived in the shadow of injustice, sidelined by my own family. My mother, Diana, passed away shortly after I was born. My father, Gregory, was a stern man who always kept his distance, as if my existence was a reminder of a pain he wanted to forget. When I was three, he remarried Susan, a woman with a cold smile and calculating eyes. They had a son together, Benjamin, or Ben, who became the center of their world. And me? I was the stepchild, the unwanted kid, the faint shadow in the house I called home.
The difference was clear from a young age. Ben received new toys; I got used plastic cars with chipped wheels. “Ben needs new things to develop his intellect,” Susan would say. When I got high grades, my father would nod and say, “Not bad.” When Ben got a C, the house would celebrate. Susan’s words—”Why don’t you try to be more like Ben?” or “You should be grateful to live in this house”—cut into me like knives.
My room was a tiny attic space with a creaky bed. Ben had a spacious room filled with posters and toys. Once, I asked my father why I couldn’t have a room downstairs. He snapped, “Don’t ask for too much, Dorian. Know your place.”
When I graduated high school, my dream of college was quickly crushed. “Dorian, we don’t have enough money,” my father said, his eyes cold. “Ben needs to be prioritized. We have to invest in him.”
I didn’t argue. That night, lying on my creaky bed, I promised myself I would rise on my own. I started working at Walmart, taking long night shifts. I rented a small, run-down apartment with stained walls and a leaky faucet, but at least it was mine. Meanwhile, Ben was fully supported, attending a prestigious private school and driving a brand-new car.
The one bright spot in my life was Grandpa Will. He lived in Chicago, running a large construction company. Occasionally, he would call, and those calls were my lifeline. “Dorian,” he’d always say, “you’re a strong young man. Don’t let anyone make you think otherwise.” I never told him how I was treated; I didn’t want him to worry.
I didn’t know that while I was trying to build my own life, a great secret was being hidden by my father and Susan. A secret that would change everything.
Two years before that fateful Christmas, when I was twenty-one, I received a text from Susan. Come to the new house tonight. 1432 Hollow Creek. Small party. I had never heard them mention moving. I bought a bottle of wine and a small, thoughtful gift and drove to the new address. It was a cream-colored home in an upscale neighborhood, exuding a sense of abundance I had never known.
“Oh, Dorian, come in,” Susan said, her smile as thin as the layer of blush on her cheeks.
The house was spacious and beautiful. Family photos already hung on the walls—my father and Susan’s wedding, Ben holding a trophy. No photos of me. I wasn’t surprised.
“Congratulations on the new house, Dad,” I said, handing him my gifts. He set them on a table without opening them and turned away.
The party was for their new neighbors. “We had to search forever to find this house,” Susan said to someone, her voice brimming with pride. “Luckily, we closed the deal just before the market prices shot up.”
I sat in a corner, trying to smile along, congratulating them for finding something that made them happy. I didn’t know I was congratulating them for taking a gift that rightfully belonged to me.
After that, a strange thing started happening. I was invited to every holiday, every celebration. They weren’t warm invitations, but curt text messages. And they started pulling me into family photos. “Dorian, stand closer to Ben,” Susan would say. I stood at the edge of the frame, forcing an awkward smile, feeling like a supporting character thrown in to fill out the cast. I didn’t understand. Why now? “Oh, we just want to capture memories,” Susan laughed when I asked. “You’re part of the family, too, aren’t you?” I knew something wasn’t right. I felt like I was playing the role of the harmonious eldest son in a photo meant for display.
Which brought us to this Christmas, with Grandpa Will standing in the living room, his smile gone, his eyes narrowed. “Dorian, tell me the truth. You don’t live here?”
I took a deep breath. “I live in a rented apartment, Grandpa. On the south side of town. I pay for it with my supermarket wages.”
A heavy, suffocating silence fell. My father bowed his head. Susan started to speak, her voice trembling. “Will, we thought it was best for Dorian. He wanted to be independent, and Ben needs space, too.”
“Enough!” Grandpa cut her off, his voice sharp as a blade. “Gregory, explain yourself. Two years ago, I sent you $400,000 to buy a three-bedroom house in this neighborhood. A gift for Dorian, to give him a good start. I made it clear: the house was for Dorian. So why is he living in a run-down apartment while you and your family are living in that very house?”
My father’s face went pale. I stood there, stunned, the ground crumbling beneath me. A house for me? $400,000?
“I… I thought the house would be better used by the whole family,” my father finally said, his voice shaky. “Dorian’s independent. He doesn’t need a big house like this. Ben’s young; he needs a good environment.”
“Doesn’t need?” Grandpa roared. “Dorian, the grandson I entrusted to your care, is living in a run-down apartment, working night shifts to survive, while you live in the house that was meant for him! You put the house in your name, didn’t you?”
My father didn’t answer.
Susan, regaining her voice, interjected, “Will, you don’t understand! Dorian isn’t my biological son. Ben is the future of this family! Dorian, he doesn’t deserve a house like this. He’s just—”
“Shut up!” Grandpa shouted, his voice echoing so powerfully it seemed to shake the room. “Doesn’t deserve? Dorian is Diana’s flesh and blood, my daughter’s son! He’s my grandson, and I trusted you, Gregory, to take care of him. But what have you done? You stole the gift I meant for him! Deceived me with these fake family photos!” He pointed at the picture on the wall, the one with me awkwardly at the edge. “I thought Dorian was living happily here. I believed the photos you sent, but it turns out it was all a charade to hide your greed!”
My throat tightened. The photos, the staged moments… it was all to deceive Grandpa.
“Dorian,” Grandpa turned to me, his voice softening but resolute. “Go get your things. You’re coming to Chicago with me. This house, I’ll make sure it belongs to you, as I originally intended. And you, Gregory,” he glared at my father, “I’ll be speaking with my lawyer. You’ll answer for what you’ve done.”
My father finally spoke, his voice a whisper. “Dorian, I… I just wanted what was best for the family.”
“Best for the family?” I repeated, my voice calm but cold. “You never considered me part of this family. I’ve spent my whole life trying to make you proud, but all you ever saw was Ben. You took away my chance, and you didn’t even bother to tell me the truth.”
I turned away, unable to look at him any longer. Grandpa placed a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go, Dorian. You don’t need to stay here anymore.”
That night, in a Chicago hotel, the full truth came out. “Dorian,” Grandpa began, his voice low and serious, “there are things we need to talk about.” He explained everything. “That’s not all,” he said, his voice thick with anger. “I’ve been sending Gregory money since you were a child. Money every year to cover your school fees, clothes, everything you needed to grow up in the best conditions. I thought he was taking care of you. But today, when I heard you talk about living in a rented apartment, working night shifts, I realized he kept it all for himself and his new family.”
It felt like someone had punched me in the chest. All those years wearing hand-me-downs, eating instant noodles, working myself to exhaustion. It could have been different.
“What are you going to do, Grandpa?” I asked.
“I’m going to sue Gregory,” he said, his voice cold as ice. “I’ll make sure the house is transferred to you, and I’ll cut off all financial support to him. He doesn’t deserve a single cent.”
I stared at the table in silence. Part of me wanted my father to pay. But another part, the part that had grown up in neglect, just wanted to let it go. “Grandpa,” I said, my voice soft but firm, “don’t sue him. Cutting off his financial support is enough. I just want to start over here, with you.”
Grandpa looked at me, his eyes softening. “Are you sure, Dorian? You have every right to claim what’s yours.”
“I’m sure,” I replied. “That house? It doesn’t matter anymore. I want to build my future, not live to fix the past.”
The weeks that followed in Chicago were an emotional journey. Grandpa’s mansion became my home. He gave me a chance to rediscover myself. I started working at his construction company, learning to read blueprints, understanding the business. My colleagues, who at first only knew me as the boss’s grandson, gradually came to respect me for my hard work.
One morning, about three months after moving, I received a letter from my father. Dorian, it read, I know I have no right to write this. What I’ve done is unforgivable. I was wrong. I let the pain of losing your mother turn me into a terrible father. I don’t expect your forgiveness, but I want you to know I regret it. Susan and Ben have moved out. I’m in the process of transferring ownership to you.
I showed the letter to Grandpa. “It’s your decision, Dorian,” he said.
“I don’t want the house, Grandpa,” I said. “I want to sell it and use the money to go to college. I want to become an engineer, like I always dreamed.”
Grandpa smiled, his eyes sparkling with pride. “That’s my grandson.”
Two years passed. Chicago became my home. I was in my second year of college, majoring in civil engineering. I found friends, a purpose, and a sense that I deserved what I’d achieved. But while I was building my new life, my father’s family was falling apart. Rumors from Ohio reached me. My father had lost his job. The money from Grandpa, meant for me, had been squandered on luxuries. They had to move to a small, run-down apartment. Ben, the pride of the family, dropped out of college and bounced from one menial job to another.
One day, the past came knocking. My phone buzzed. It was Susan, her voice weak and trembling. “Dorian, it’s Susan. We’re in trouble, Dorian. Real trouble. I thought maybe you could help.”
“Family?” The word sounded foreign coming from her.
She launched into a long story of desperation. Her voice choked as she spoke of Ben. “Ben’s struggling, Dorian. He’s working at a fast-food restaurant, but he’s not used to it. He needs help.”
I let out a laugh, not out of amusement, but from the irony. Ben, the spoiled little brother, was now struggling in a job I had done since I was eighteen.
“Susan,” I said, my voice calm but firm, “you’re calling me for help after everything? After Dad took my house, after you said I didn’t deserve it? You think I’ll forget the years I was treated like an outsider?”
“Dorian,” she whispered, “I know we were wrong. But we’re family. Ben’s your brother.”
“Family?” I repeated, my voice laced with bitterness. “You and Dad never treated me like family. You said I wasn’t worthy. Dad took not just the house, but the money Grandpa sent for my education, for my life. And now you want me to help Ben, the one who was always favored over me? No, Susan. Let Ben learn to stand on his own, like I had to. Let your family figure it out. I don’t owe you anything.”
I hung up, my heart pounding. Over the past two years, I hadn’t heard from them directly, but the rumors painted a clear picture of their downfall. A month later, another letter came from my father. A plea. The family was on the brink of bankruptcy. Ben was getting into trouble. I was their last hope.
I read the letter in my room at Grandpa’s mansion. Each word felt like a knife reopening old wounds. I remembered the nights in the attic, wondering why I wasn’t loved. I called Grandpa and told him about the letter. “What are you going to do?” he asked, his voice steady.
“I’m not going to help them,” I said, my voice firm. “They had their chance. Ben had everything I didn’t. If he has to work to survive now, that’s a lesson he needs to learn. I pulled myself up from nothing. I don’t owe them anything.”
Grandpa nodded, saying nothing more. But I knew he approved. I had chosen to let the past go, and now I chose not to let it drag me back. I had chosen myself.