On Christmas Eve dinner, my grandfather came to visit and asked, “Did you like the house I gave you two years ago?” I stared in shock. “What house? I never received anything.” Grandfather slowly turned to my parents. Their faces went pale. And then all hell broke loose.
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 joy, as if he were waiting to share a wonderful secret.
Grandpa Will, a successful businessman, always busy with his construction company in Chicago, rarely had time to visit. I pushed the door open, and immediately 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 like stars when he saw me. He stood up 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.
“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 widening as they darted 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 glanced at my father, waiting for an explanation, but he only lowered his head.
Susan quickly interjected, her voice trembling. “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. I was born in a small suburban town in Ohio where the streets were lined with golden leaves in the fall. But my family was different. My mother, Diana, passed away shortly after giving birth to me. My father, Gregory, was a stern man who always kept his distance, as if my existence was a reminder of the 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. Ben was the center of their world. And me? I was the stepchild, the unwanted kid, the faint shadow in the house I called home.
From a young age, I felt the difference. When I was five, I remember watching Ben receive a remote-controlled toy car. I got a used plastic car with chipped wheels. “Ben needs new things to develop his intellect,” Susan said, as if I wasn’t worthy of anything better. When I got high grades, my father would just nod and say, “Not bad.” Meanwhile, if Ben got a C, the whole house would celebrate.
I wasn’t a jealous kid. I just wanted to be loved. But as the days passed, I realized that in their eyes, I was never good enough. My room was a tiny attic space with a creaky old bed. Ben had a spacious room filled with 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 was 18, I graduated with decent grades. I dreamed of going to college, becoming an engineer, or doing something to make Grandpa—the only person who truly cared about me—proud. But that dream was quickly crushed.
“Dorian, we don’t have enough money,” he said one evening. “Ben needs to be prioritized. We have to invest in him.”
I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. That night, I promised myself I would rise on my own. I started working at a Walmart, first as a cashier, then as a stockroom worker. Long night shifts, working through holidays. But I didn’t complain. Every dollar I earned was a small step toward escaping. I rented a small, run-down apartment, but at least it was mine.
Meanwhile, Ben was fully supported. He attended a prestigious private school, drove a brand-new car our father bought, and never had to lift a finger. Once, Susan came to the store where I worked. “Dorian, this is what you’re doing?” she smirked. “Such a shame. Ben will never have to do menial work like this.”
Grandpa Will was the one bright spot in my life. He’d call from Chicago, and those calls were my lifeline. “Dorian,” he’d 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 Christmas, when I was 21, I was still living in my tiny apartment, working night shifts. One afternoon, Susan texted. Come to the new house tonight. 1432 Hollow Creek. Small party. I had never heard them mention moving. I hesitated, but I wanted to go. Maybe to congratulate them. Maybe to prove that I was no longer the sullen, quiet kid.
The new house was in an upscale neighborhood. A cream-colored home with a wide porch and arched windows. “Oh, Dorian, come in,” Susan said, her smile as thin as the layer of blush on her cheeks. The living room was spacious, with glossy wooden floors and a granite fireplace. Family photos already hung on the walls. My father and Susan’s wedding. Ben holding a sports trophy. No photos of me.
“Congratulations on the new house, Dad,” I said, handing over a bottle of wine and a small gift. He took them, set them on a table without opening them, and turned away.
The party consisted of just a few new neighbors. “We had to search forever to find this house,” Susan said, her voice brimming with pride. “Luckily, we closed the deal just before the market prices shot up.”
I sat there, trying to smile along. I didn’t know that, in that moment, I was congratulating them for taking a gift that rightfully belonged to me.
After that day, something strange started happening. I received invitations to their house for every major holiday. And they started pulling me into family photos. “Dorian, stand closer to Ben,” Susan would say. I was surprised but stepped forward, forcing an awkward smile, feeling like a supporting character thrown in to fill out the cast. I didn’t understand, but I knew something wasn’t right. I was being led along, forced into a fabricated frame I had never belonged to.
Which brought us to this Christmas night. Grandpa Will, his eyes narrowed, fixed his gaze on me. “Dorian, tell me the truth. You don’t live here?”
I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the entire room pressing down. “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. My father bowed his head. Susan started to speak, but Grandpa cut her off. “Gregory, explain yourself. Two years ago, I sent you $400,000 to buy a three-bedroom house in this neighborhood. A gift for Dorian. 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. 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 meant for him! You put the house in your name, didn’t you?”
My father didn’t answer.
Susan interjected, “Will, you don’t understand! Dorian isn’t my biological son! Ben is the future of this family! Dorian, he doesn’t deserve—”
“Shut up!” Grandpa shouted, his voice echoing. “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. “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. I looked at my father, waiting for an explanation, an apology. But he remained silent.
“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. “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 fancy Chicago restaurant, Grandpa told me the rest. “I’ve been sending Gregory money since you were a child,” he said, his voice thick with anger. “Money every year to cover your school fees, clothes, everything. I thought he was taking care of you. But today, when I heard you talk about 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. It could have been different.
“What are you going to do, Grandpa?” I asked.
“I’m going to sue Gregory,” he said. “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.”
“Grandpa,” I said, my voice soft but firm, “don’t sue him. I know you’re angry, and so am I. But I don’t want to drag this out. 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 company, initially as an assistant, learning to read blueprints, understanding construction processes. My colleagues, who at first only knew me as the boss’s grandson, gradually came to respect me for my hard work.
Grandpa encouraged me. “You have heart and determination, Dorian. That’s all I need.”
I enrolled in a university in Chicago, majoring in civil engineering. With Grandpa’s support and the money from selling the house in Ohio, I began the educational journey I once thought was impossible. The first days at school weren’t easy. I was older than most of my classmates, but I didn’t give up. Whenever I felt like quitting, I thought of my mother, Grandpa, and the promise I made to myself.
I also found new friends. I joined an engineering club where I met Emma, a smart girl with a radiant smile. For the first time, I felt like I had a community, a place where I belonged.
Three months after moving, I received a letter from my father. Dorian, he wrote, what I’ve done is unforgivable. I was wrong. I let the pain of losing your mother turn me into a terrible father. I’m in the process of transferring ownership to you.
I showed the letter to Grandpa. “It’s your decision, Dorian.”
“I don’t want the house,” I said. “I want to sell it and use the money for college.”
Grandpa smiled. “That’s my grandson.”
The house in Ohio was sold. The money was deposited into my tuition account. My father didn’t contact me again, and I didn’t reach out. Maybe one day I’ll be ready. But for now, I wanted to focus on the present.
Two years passed. Chicago became my home. I was in my second year of college. 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. Susan couldn’t find work. Ben, the pride of the family, had dropped out of college and was now working at a fast-food restaurant. I didn’t dwell on it.
Until one day, the past came knocking. My phone buzzed. It was an unfamiliar number from Ohio. Susan’s 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. After Grandpa cut off all financial support, they sold most of their possessions, but the debts kept piling up. Ben, she said, was struggling. He wasn’t used to working. He needed help.
“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?”
“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. 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. But her words no longer had the power to sway me. I had chosen myself.