Short Emotional Realism Stories & Novels

My son, Archie Burton, has a bad habit of being painfully honest. I ask him, "Am I handsome?" "To be honest, Dad," he says, "you're the ugliest dad in the whole kindergarten." My mother-in-law tears into me for being a spendthrift after I buy Archie an expensive backpack, and I ask him how he feels about it. "Honestly," he says, "it makes me happy to watch you get chewed out." My wife asks him jokingly if he'll take care of me when I get old. "No way am I looking after him," he says. "When he gets old, he should just die." My heart sinks. But Archie just smiles. "I'm only telling the truth!" Then the police come by to conduct a census check and ask him a few simple questions. He is brutally honest as usual. Only this time, he regrets it for the rest of his life.

On New Year’s Eve, my kidnappers forced me to climb down the inside of a 650-foot industrial chimney with my bare hands. The kidnappers started a live stream on the dark web. They claimed that what I was doing could drive away bad luck and bring blessings for the country. I climbed for a full eight hours in darkness and pain. When my family caught me at the bottom of the chimney, my body was covered in sores, and I was so injured that they barely recognized me. Rachel immediately covered me with a shawl. When she helped me get into the car, she was shaking. My fiancee cried and dared not touch me. That night, she destroyed the whole criminal organization. On that ambulance ride home, I could barely think straight. I heard them whispering to each other. “Rachel, Jason just wanted an unforgettable night! You said it’s not “impressive” enough and insisted on making Yannick climb the chimney!” “Miss Jones, how could an ordinary present leave such a lasting impression on Jason?” “It doesn’t matter if Yannick suffers a little physical pain. Our family will more than make it up to him.” It turned out that the eight hours of agony I endured, which nearly killed me, were just to ensure that another man’s holiday would be “truly unforgettable.”

On my younger brother's 18th birthday, our parents book the most expensive revolving restaurant in the city to celebrate with him. But all because a waiter accidentally splashes a bit of water on the edge of his sneakers, my brother, Samuel Stone, blows up on the spot. "Do you have any idea how rare these are? They're limited-edition worldwide! Not even your life is worth as much as them!" The waiter, Rowan Lane, shakes in fright and bows his head, apologizing profusely. But Samuel just keeps going and makes a mountain out of a molehill. He even orders Rowan to get on his knees and lick his shoes clean. Our parents, who have always spoiled Samuel rotten, jump in to back him up. They yell at Rowan like he's committed some unforgivable crime. When this happens in my last life, I can't stand it. I step in and talk my family down, finally ending the farce. Unbeknownst to me, someone films the entire thing and posts it online. People on the internet call me kind and brave. By comparison, Samuel's tantrum makes him look like an entitled, vicious brat. He gets torn apart across every platform. He holds a grudge against me for it. After tricking me up onto the rooftop of a 30-story building, he shoves me off without a second thought. From that height, I hit the concrete and die on impact. When I open my eyes again, I'm back in that restaurant—right at the moment Samuel is pointing at Rowan and cursing him out. What Samuel doesn't know is that this "nobody" he's screaming at is actually the only son of the city's richest man, who went missing years ago. All the humiliation and insult Samuel dishes out that day is going to come back as one hell of a revenge.

Ever since Mom loses the baby, Dad has been spending his time keeping his late classmate's wife company. So I take scissors to our family photos, cutting him out of every single one. When Mom receives a call from my school, she overhears me telling a classmate that my dad is dead and asking if I can borrow theirs instead. Mom freezes for a moment before admitting, "Yeah, he died young." When family sports day rolls around, Mom catches me slipping a ten-dollar bill to the school guard, begging him to pretend to be my dad for the day. Instead of stopping me, she quietly hands the guard 200 dollars, making sure he attends the parent-teacher conference with me. Whenever an event requires a father figure, Mom simply lets me rent one. Eventually, it dawns on Dad that he hasn't heard anything from us in a long time. He clears his entire schedule for the afternoon to pick me up from school, but my teacher stops him at the school gate. Dad heads back home in confusion. The second he steps through the front door, he overhears me speaking to the maintenance guy. "My dad's dead," I tell him. "Do you want to be my new dad?"

The day the SAT results drop, I log a 1,500. The whole school goes wild. My boyfriend, Declan Dawson, lights up. "Sienna, that score locks in your spot at top universities! Let's celebrate with a trip abroad this break. Also, I've been eyeing a new laptop." I freeze. For some reason, Declan has spent all three years of high school convinced I'm a secret heiress who's just playing broke to test his loyalty. I clutch the last 10 bucks in my pocket, thoroughly mortified. "Declan, I really can't afford a vacation. Please don't be mad. Once I get my scholarship, I'll buy you those new sneakers you wanted, okay?" Declan's smile vanishes, and his gaze turns ice-cold. "Are you seriously still playing poor? You think you can brush me off with a cheap pair of shoes? Sienna Lawrence, drop the act. I know what you've been doing behind my back!" As I watch his angry figure leave, I feel a bitter ache in my heart. Maybe breaking up is for the best. My family background has never matched his anyway. Then comes the night of my celebration dinner. He shows up unexpectedly, arm in arm with the class beauty, and slaps a DNA test report right on the table in front of everyone. "Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, Rosie is the real Lawrence heiress! Your actual biological daughter! The girl you raised is nothing but a fraud living a stolen life!" My parents freeze on stage. Rosie cues the tears right on time. "Sienna, you knew the truth all along. How could you steal my family and my life like this?" Declan pulls Rosie close and looks at me with pure, vengeful satisfaction. "It's time you give Rosie back everything you stole, Sienna!" They think I usurped Rosie's place in some luxury dynasty, but my family literally just makes a living collecting junk!

After hitting the five-million-dollar jackpot, I plan to leave every cent to my son, Caleb Dawson. But sitting inside the notary office, I suddenly hesitate. My wife, Zoey Watts, looks at me in utter confusion. "Caleb passed the test, so why are you hesitating?" A few days ago, I found a lottery ticket on the street that turned out to be worth five million dollars. Zoey was ecstatic. She immediately wanted to call our son and daughter, but I stopped her. "We can't just hand over five million dollars. Tell them I'm terminally ill. Whoever steps up to pay for my treatment gets the money." Our kids have always been good to us, so Zoey accused me of overthinking things. But our daughter, Jayda Dawson's, reaction completely blindsided us. She lives in a mansion and drives a luxury car. Yet, she only handed me 200 bucks, told me not to bother her, and ordered me to get out. Meanwhile, Caleb has just graduated and doesn't even have a job yet. Still, he gave me all 3,000 dollars he saved up over the years. Without any hesitation, Zoey and I decide to leave the entire five million dollars to Caleb. But now, I have changed my mind. "Sir, I want to leave everything to my daughter!" Zoey snaps. "Henry Dawson! Have you lost your mind?" I shake my head. "My mind is perfectly clear. Mom came to me in a dream last night."

The company janitor suffers a heart attack, and I race toward the elevator with him on my back. But the new COO, Alexis Brown, refuses to let us in with the excuse that we're dirty and smelly. I beg her, but she just scoffs and has security pin me to the floor. Then she takes the elevator down and deliberately presses every floor button to delay us. The janitor misses the critical window for treatment and dies on my back. The next day, Alexis calls a company meeting and shifts the blame on me. She tries to fire me for causing a disturbance at work and even demands compensation for her emotional distress. I look at her coldly before putting the security footage up on the big screen. Then, I say, "Ms. Brown, you left your own father to die. He sacrificed everything to put you through college. How are you going to pay for that?"

As part of a deal with my husband, Shane Ford, I went undercover and spent a week interning at his company. On my very first day, I walked into the lobby and found a woman waving a certified copy of a marriage certificate in the receptionist’s face like she owned the place. “Do you understand what this proves?” she demanded. “I’m Shane Ford’s wife. The one and only Mrs. Ford.” She looked the receptionist up and down. “Why are you slouching? Stand up straight. And when I’m speaking to you, show some respect. Keep your head down until Mr. Ford gets here.” Then she turned her attention to the company cafeteria. “You actually expect people to eat that food? I’ll have a Michelin-starred chef brought in to redo the entire menu.” I was about to step in when the coworker beside me grabbed my arm. “Don’t. She’s Mr. Ford’s first love. I heard he proposed 100 times before she finally said yes.” She nodded toward the marriage certificate and lowered her voice. “If you offend Mr. Ford, you’ll probably just get fired. But if you offend Mrs. Ford, you could disappear without a trace.” I nearly laughed. I pulled out my phone and called my brother. “Tell Shane to come down here, and have him bring divorce papers.” I checked the time. “I want him on his knees begging me within five minutes.”

At my father-in-law's funeral, my wife's lover took the son-in-law's seat in the family pew, holding his three-year-old daughter, the two of them wearing the family's mourning ribbons. I was left standing off to the side. Vanessa lowered her voice and tried to reason with me. "Dad's funeral matters. You've always known when to be sensible. Making a scene won't do you any good. "Damon gave me my only child. He's earned the right to sit up front as a son-in-law." Then Damon leaned in close enough that only I could hear him. "You've got some nerve. Our wife just humiliated you in front of everyone, and you're still standing here. "After my daughter and I take that seat today, everyone in Crownridge will know me as the Carlisle son-in-law. You won't even register. Let's see how long you last." My mother-in-law had her turn too. "You can't blame anyone but yourself. Ten years married to Vanessa and you never gave her a child." I beckoned to my two five-year-old sons waiting near the back. "Come here. Take your places up front as your grandfather's grandsons and say goodbye to him." They wanted children? Who said I didn't have any?

"Honey, maybe we should tell your mom to stop treatment." On Christmas Eve, after spending the day cooking dinner for my in-laws, I was getting ready to head to the hospital and keep my mother, Deborah Ramsey, company through the night. Just as I reached the door, my husband, Blaine Ramsey, stopped me. It took me a moment to process what he'd said. I turned and stared at him in disbelief. "What do you mean?" He lowered his head and stayed silent. My mother-in-law, Rosalia Ramsey, however, answered with an impatient glare, "It means exactly what he said. Your mother's treatment should stop. Her illness is nothing but a bottomless pit that's going to swallow who knows how much money." I immediately argued, "The doctor said she has a 90% chance of making a full recovery. After surgery and about two years of rehabilitation, she'll be fine. She has medical insurance, so after reimbursement, it won't even cost that much." My sister-in-law, Aviana Ramsey, rolled her eyes and chimed in, "Doesn't that still mean there's a 10% chance she won't make it? "And even if she does recover, she'll just be useless. She doesn't have a pension. She'll end up relying on Blaine to support her anyway. "So why not stop the treatment now? At least she won't drag everyone else down." I looked at Blaine. He kept his head down without saying a word. I didn't argue anymore. I picked up the lunch box and left for the hospital. Had they forgotten? The house they were living in—the one they called a burden—had been bought outright by the very woman they wanted to abandon. Three days later, Rosalia collapsed during a family dinner and was rushed to the hospital. It was late-stage cancer. Blaine and his family panicked, talking about selling the house to pay for her treatment. Leaning against the wall, I yawned. "Honey, I already sold the house. Maybe your mom should just stop treatment. It'd be a waste of money."

After I was taken into the mountains, I became the whole town's slave. If one field remained unharvested or one family's firewood went uncut, they beat my face bloody. They avoided my arms and legs only because they expected twice as much work from me the next day. On New Year's Eve, I finally decided I couldn't survive another day and went to the river to end my life, only to hear two people whispering behind the trees. "Watch yourself. He is still the Hawthornes' biological son. They sent him to Red Willow Hollow to learn discipline, not for you to use however you want." "Biological son? His parents haven't asked about him in years. They already have another boy, the polished young heir who visited last time. The difference between them is night and day. "If anything happens, we'll blame him. Mrs. Hawthorne said that a boy without manners doesn't deserve to be her son. He may as well die out here." I stood frozen above the river, forgetting even why I had come. My mother always boasted that her family came from old money. She said a gentleman's most important quality was proper conduct. So why, after seeing my body, did she abandon every rule of dignity she had ever demanded from me?

My family goes bankrupt when I'm ten years old. Just like that, I become a fallen heir overnight. Instead of letting me struggle, my dad, Steven Hollister, raises me with even greater care. He insists that I'm the family's only hope. I spend the next eight years living like a porcelain doll. My skin can't have so much as a scratch. Every meal is measured down to the last calorie. I'm forbidden from taking gym class or touching anything sharp. If I come home with even the smallest cut or scrape, Dad berates me for days. My younger brother, Michael Hollister, on the other hand, is given complete freedom. He skips school and gets into fights. Dad barely gives him a second glance. "He'll never amount to anything," he says with a dismissive wave. "This family is counting on you." On my 18th birthday, Dad excitedly announces that the company is finally going to recover and that we'll be rich again. He throws me an extravagant birthday party, but the guest of honor is a young man about my age seated at the head of the table. During dinner, the stranger openly sizes me up from head to toe before nodding in satisfaction. I assume he's the investor who's about to save my family. That night, I happen to glance at Dad's phone just as the screen lights up. A notification shows a massive wire transfer. The payment note reads, "Final payment received. We'll deliver the goods as scheduled."

After my grandmother passed away, my parents brought me back from the countryside to the city. That was when I learned I had a younger sister, born a mere year after me. My mother sat me down and reminded me that as the oldest sister, I needed to learn to yield to my siblings in everything. I nodded quietly, understanding my place. In this household, I ranked fourth. Later, my little brother was born, and my standing effortlessly plummeted from fourth to fifth. The turning point came during the summer of my sophomore year of college. When I returned home for the holidays, I discovered the front door had been outfitted with a brand-new, high-tech smart lock. They had completely forgotten to mention it to me. Clutching a dead phone, I sat on the hot concrete of the stairwell, waiting from two o'clock in the afternoon until ten o'clock at night. When they finally emerged, they were dragging luggage behind them, laughing and chatter-boxing about the highlights of their recent vacation. The four of them were wearing matching family T-shirts. Naturally, there wasn't one for me. As my dad begrudgingly attempted to program my thumbprint into the system, he let out a sharp, irritated click of his tongue. "The master administrator account only permits five profiles. There's no room to add another." My mom barely looked up. "Just set her up with a temporary guest token. We can manually authorize her whenever she decides to visit." As I stood there stunned, my brother laughed. "Shelly registered the dog's nose print into the system. She said he's an important member of the family. Guess that leaves you out of the slot!" In a family of five, the dog claimed the fifth tier, and I ranked sixth. That very night, I quietly filled out the application to join a classified frontier research program. I understood that when a visitor's time ran out, the only proper thing to do was take their leave.

Ever since I was little, my dad taught me that no matter what happened, I should put my studies and exams as my top priority. When I was eight, I accidentally broke my leg during gym class, but my dad insisted that I finish that day’s class before taking me to get it treated. When the doctor said I was brought in too late and would have to be hospitalized, my dad looked troubled. “Third grade is a crucial transition period in elementary school. My child absolutely cannot waste any time right now!” So, I went to school in a wheelchair during the day and returned to my hospital room at night to finish my homework. When I was discharged, I was left with a lasting condition. Ever since then, I walked with a slight limp. When I was eleven, I ran a high fever of 102 degrees and started babbling incoherently. But my dad took forever to arrive. The teacher was so anxious that she took me to the hospital first, only to be berated by my dad when he finally showed up. “The transition from elementary to middle school is a critical moment for a child’s future. If my son, Teleus Costa, misses these three classes, just think how far behind the other kids he’ll fall!” Even though I had not fully recovered, my dad sent me back to school the very next day. From then on, I suffered from severe myocarditis. At seventeen, I developed a serious heart condition that put me at risk of sudden death at any moment. But my dad insisted I wait until after the SATs to seek treatment. “The SATs are the pivotal moment that determines your future. Missing even one class at such a time is tantamount to suicide!” One night during evening study hall, my heart seized up again, and I stumbled down the stairs. Lying in a pool of blood, I mustered my last ounce of strength to press the emergency contact button on my smartwatch to call for help. But on the other end, I heard my father’s voice. “There’s still one more session of evening study hall left. Can’t you just hang in there until it’s over?” ‘Dad, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I could make it,’ I thought.

My mother loved obedience tests. I told her I couldn't eat ginger, and she put it in every single meal. "Who's allergic to ginger? You're just being picky." For my eighteenth birthday she went out and bought half a ton of it, then made an all-ginger banquet and a bottle of homemade ginger perfume. She looked at me, pleased with herself. "Ginger cures everything. I'm doing this for your own good." "Only a spoiled kid refuses ginger. I minced it all up this time. Let's see you pick it out now." My mother was delighted. As far as she was concerned, the test had worked. What she didn't know was that I'd never lied to her. My ginger allergy was severe. Once I'd eaten or breathed in that much of it, the symptoms would build over the next two hours, and they could kill me.

At the height of my little menace era, I'm busy pinning Marlon Briggs to the ground and making him lick my shoes for stealing my milk. Just then, a dozen luxury cars roll up and completely block the entrance to the orphanage. A tycoon crouches down in front of me, his hand trembling with emotion as he reaches out to pat my head. "Sweetie, I'm sorry. I found you too late. You've suffered so much." A chubby girl with a runny nose from the next class shivers and mutters under her breath, "Suffered? Yesterday, he used a slingshot to make a bunch of troublemakers kneel on the ground and beg him for mercy…'" I take a sip from the nearly empty juice box in my hand, meanwhile calculating how many juice boxes I can buy if I pawn the watch on my new dad's wrist. At that moment, New Dad's assistant answers a phone call and immediately breaks out in a sweat. "Mr. Sterling, we have a problem. Ms. Sterling snuck out because she wanted to meet her brother. She somehow ended up with a fever and passed out. "And the new Mrs. Sterling wants to know when you're coming home. She says it doesn't matter if we can't find your son. She can always give you another one…" It's bad enough that I have a sister. But I have a stepmom too? I toss my empty juice box into a trash can 30 feet away with perfect accuracy, dust off my hands, and climb straight into the back seat of the limousine. "Drive. We're going home." It's not that I'm eager to reunite with my long-lost family. It's just that I can't stand people causing trouble on my turf.

The day my sister, Megan Slade, was taken back by her wealthy birth family, she begged her parents with tears in her eyes. "Colin Carter's my brother. I'm all he has left. If he can't come with me, then I won't go back," she said. In the end, her parents had no choice but to bring me back home with her. When we first came to the Slade family, the fake heir, Joel Slade, who had lived as their son for over ten years was spoiled rotten and constantly targeted both me and Megan. At first, Megan was annoyed by him. Whenever her parents asked her to be more patient with Joel since he was her brother, she would always say without hesitation, "Colin's my only brother." But later, she never said those words again. Sometimes, she would even compare me to him. "I wish you were more cheerful like Joel. You're always so quiet." That day, she forgot my birthday again. I didn't make a fuss. I quietly made myself a cake. But the moment I finished it, she picked it up and casually brought it to Joel. "The cake Joel ordered got ruined on the way, and he's been upset about it," she said, "just give this one to him." I was so hurt that I didn't say a word all night. Seeing that, she looked at me with impatience evident in her eyes. "You're giving me an attitude over a cake? If you didn't want to share, why didn't you just say so?" Megan snapped at me. Joel made a face. "I told you before that your brother was petty, but you wouldn't believe me. I really don't understand why you brought that dead weight back with you." This time, Megan didn't argue back. So it turned out that even she saw me as a burden now.

Dad's foreman withheld his wages, leaving him no choice but to come into the city and find a lawyer. He didn't know how to use the elevator, so he climbed all 20 flights of stairs and walked into the law firm clutching a crumpled contract. "Claire, could you take a look at this? My boss owes me 24 thousand. What am I supposed to do?" As the founder of one of the largest law firms in the city, Claire Doyle had handled countless pro bono cases. But now, she was too busy revising the new intern's law school thesis to even glance at Dad's contract. "Twenty-four grand wouldn't even cover my retainer. I'm sorry, but I can't take the case." Her voice was cold, leaving no room for discussion. Dad's back, already bent from years of hauling rebar and pouring concrete, seemed to stoop even lower. "Okay... I won't take up any more of your time." He slowly gathered his documents and tucked them back into his canvas bag. When he turned to leave, even his footsteps were hesitant, as though he felt the need to apologize for coming at all. My chest tightened. I shot to my feet, ready to confront Claire, but Dad caught my hand before I could take a step. "Josh, it's okay. Claire has her reasons. Don't hold it against her." I stood there, unable to move, as Dad's hunched figure shuffled toward the door. The moment it closed behind him, one thing became painfully clear. I didn't want Claire to be my wife anymore.

On the eve of the driving school's simulated road test, all twelve of my students signed a petition demanding I be fired. "Coach Sutton, we paid to get our licenses—not to hear you tell us every day we're going to kill someone." "All you ever do is slam the instructor brake or grab the steering wheel. Anyone who learns from you is doomed." The ringleader, Sienna Vaughn, threw a petition in my face before uploading a carefully edited video online. In the clip, I repeatedly stomped on the passenger-side brake and barked orders for students to pull over. Caption: "Gold Medal Coach... or Crazy Coach? Students are too terrified to touch the wheel." What she left out was everything that happened a split second before: the child who ran into the crosswalk just as I hit the brake, and the box truck drifting into our lane the instant I grabbed the wheel. Months earlier, when my previous class crashed on the freeway, I injured my knee pulling students out of the wreckage. The damage never fully healed. Ever since then, I'd become stricter behind the wheel. I braked when they ran a yellow light. I took the wheel if they didn't look in the mirror when changing lanes. Anyone who dared to touch their phone would have their training ended on the spot. But while I was at the hospital for a follow-up appointment, I overheard Sienna laughing in the stairwell. "Coach Sutton's just traumatized. Once we get her fired, let's see if she still sticks her nose into everyone's business." When I returned to the driving school, the owner, Victor Cross, told me to apologize and smooth things over. I looked at the twelve signatures on the petition and smiled. "Sure. Starting today, I won't touch the passenger brake for any of you."

Late one night, I was curled up in bed scrolling through anonymous posts on my tablet when one caught my eye. "My daughter scored 1560 on her SAT, but she's determined to leave home for an out-of-state university. How can I get her to choose a local school instead and stay with me forever?" The comments tore into the parent for being selfish and controlling. However, the original poster insisted she'd sacrificed everything to raise her daughter alone and couldn't bear the thought of growing old with no one by her side. Amidst the barrage of criticism, I saw the top-rated reply. "These high school seniors won't see it coming. Wait until she's asleep, take her phone, use the verification code to reset her application portal password, and change all her college choices two minutes before the deadline. "Once the admissions results are finalized, fake a medical emergency and end up in the ER. She'll be too guilty to ask for a gap year." As someone who had also just scored high on the exams this year, I was shaking with anger. I was about to leave a furious reply when I instinctively reached for the phone charging beside my pillow. It was gone.