Chapter 2

I was sleeping soundly in the guest room when Ezra knocked on my door again.

"Wallace, the master bedroom on the second floor was yours to begin with. I've occupied it for 18 years, and now it's time to give it back to you." He lowered his head with a guilty expression. "You should move back in. I'll sleep in the storage room."

I glanced down the hallway behind him.

The master bedroom door stood half open. The room had floor-to-ceiling windows and a walk-in closet. Even the gaming desk alone was bigger than the bed I'd had before.

"Sure. Thanks!"

The corner of Ezra's mouth lifted almost imperceptibly before he quickly walked away.

I went back to my room and continued sleeping.

…

The next morning, an argument downstairs woke me.

When I went down, I saw more than a dozen suitcases piled by the front door.

Ezra crouched by the entrance, his eyes red and his hands trembling as he gripped the handle of a duffel bag. "I'm fine... Wallace is your biological son. If he wants the room, just give it to him..."

My mother's eyes reddened as she pulled him into her arms. "Ezra, what are you talking about? You'll always be the little prince of this family!"

Lilian crouched beside him to comfort him.

The moment she saw me, her eyes practically turned murderous. "Wallace, you're kicking Ezra out on your second day back?"

My father looked at me too. "He's lived in that room since he was little. Do you really have to take over his territory?"

I opened my mouth to answer.

Ezra beat me to it, his eyes still red. "Don't blame Wallace. He just got back, so it's perfectly normal for him to want a space of his own..."

Lilian grew even angrier. "He has his own guest room! Why should he take yours?!"

My mother sighed. "Wallace, you've really disappointed me."

I pointed upstairs. "Why don't you go take a look?"

Lilian let out a cold laugh. "You think looking at your room is going to make you look like the good guy?!"

With that, she stormed upstairs.

The next second, she stopped outside the guest room and fell silent.

My suitcase still sat untouched in the corner.

The door to the master bedroom was closed, and there was no sign that anyone had slept in it.

Leonard spoke up. "Mr. Wallace slept very well in the guest room last night. He snored the entire night."

Everyone downstairs fell silent.

Ezra's face went pale for a moment. Then he abruptly stood and glared at me, his voice rising. "If you never planned to move in, why did you agree to it?!"

The words had barely left his mouth before he froze. Slowly, he covered his mouth.

I looked at him, and memories of my childhood suddenly came flooding back.

When I lived with my adoptive family, saying no meant getting slapped. Even if I agreed but failed to do something properly, I'd still get beaten.

Once, my adoptive father, Bobby Johnson, stole money from the house and told my adoptive mother, Karen Davis, that I'd taken it.

I said I hadn't, but no one believed me.

Bobby beat me and demanded to know if I had any proof. I didn't.

That beating left me unable to get out of bed for two days.

After that, I learned my lesson.

I was too afraid to refuse, so I agreed to everything. I was afraid of making mistakes, so I did as little as possible. The less I did, the fewer mistakes I could make.

As for anything people said to me, asked me to do, or gave me, I remembered every single detail. The more clearly I remembered, the less often I got beaten.

…

That night, my mother came to see me in the guest room.

She sat beside the bed and, for once, spoke gently. "Wallace, all these years you've been out there... You must've had a hard time."

She fell silent for a long while. "Things will get better from here. We'll take it one step at a time."

I nodded.

She continued, "But Ezra has lived in this family for 18 years, and that room really has been his since he was little. Why don't you stay in the guest room for now, okay?"

"Okay."

My mother let out a sigh of relief, then closed the door behind her as she left.

I sat on the bed and looked around.

The guest room was pretty nice too. The bed was soft, and there was even a window. It was better than anywhere I'd ever lived before.

I took out my phone and walked around the room, taking pictures: the painting on the wall, the vase on the desk, the porcelain decorations inside the cabinet, and more.

I photographed them one by one, numbered each picture, and saved them in a separate album.

There was no other reason. It was just a habit. Keeping a record of everything was my rule for survival.

At the far end of the second-floor hallway, Ezra's bedroom door was tightly shut.

Once again, the sound of things being smashed came from inside.