Familial Bond Face Slapping Short Stories & Novels

For my son's birthday, I booked his favorite mecha-themed hotel. But when we checked in, the hotel changed our room at the last minute. After my son drank from one of their bottled waters, he found pieces of a torn colored contact lens inside. I immediately called the front desk. "Because of your hotel's poor management, my son had just drunk water with pieces of a torn contact lens inside. I want to speak with your manager." A man answered from the other side, but he simply yawned and said annoyingly, "Why are you asking for a manager in the middle of the night? Do you have proof? I've seen plenty of men like you. You're just freeloaders trying to get the room comped. Stop making a fuss!" After he hung up, my expression darkened. I'd let them know if I was a freeloader.

My mom, Serena Brunetti, is the most hopelessly lovesick side character in a romance novel. She's the daughter of the Don of the Brunetti family, for crying out loud. But she rejected the match her family arranged and insisted on marrying my dad, John Carter, instead. I call him Trash Dad. He's a freeloader who lives off her money and keeps his first love on the side. The result? Seven miscarriages, all deliberately caused. Yet she's so sweet and clueless that she thinks they happened because her body is too weak. She even feels as if she let Trash Dad down. And me? I'm the poor little soul who tried to be born seven times in a row and never made it out of heaven. On my eighth try, even my angel couldn't stand to watch anymore and personally escorted me into the world. Before leaving, the angel even gave me a max-level Baby Talk buff. I was all set to live my best life, adored and spoiled rotten. Instead, Trash Dad walked up to Mom's hospital bed with a smile, carrying some random baby boy. "You did so well, honey. Look, this is our precious son, the first in line to inherit from your dad." Meanwhile, I'd been stuffed into a filthy biohazard bin, and I was about to be tossed into an incinerator and burned to ash! I panicked and started cursing in my head. Lovesick Mom, wake up! That's Trash Dad's son with his side piece. I'm your real daughter. Come save me! Mom, who had been leaning against Trash Dad and gazing at him like a lovesick puppy, suddenly shivered.

The study-abroad list went up on the department bulletin board. Kevin's name sat at the top of the sponsored students column. Mine was stuck in the alternate slot. In front of the whole class, he waved it off like it was nothing. "I'm not going. Can't even afford it." The spot slid down to me. "Congrats, Nathan! You snagged the last public-funded spot!" Classmates crowded around to offer their congratulations. My advisor turned to my parents with a clasped-hand gesture. "Professor Reed, Professor Turner—congratulations! You must be so proud of your boy!" I took the acceptance letter, my chest swelling as I looked at three years of blood, sweat, and late nights finally paying off. Then my mom reached over, plucked it right out of my hands, and passed it straight to Kevin. She grabbed my arm, her face all twisted up with regret. "Kevin's the kid we sponsor—his parents can't afford to send him anywhere. This is his one shot to go abroad. You're our flesh and blood. You need to be the bigger person here and let him have it." Kevin clutched the letter, dropped to his knees with a thud, and thanked her. I stared at that letter—the one that decided my future—and thought about every single night I'd pulled all-nighters over the last three years. They handed my future over to someone else. Fine. If that's how they want to play it, then I don't want this family anymore.

Three years into the Great Drought, my sister and the shelter commander, Lisa Crawford, made me stand outside the shelter just because my hand slipped from a palpitation and I spilled a little water. "Wasting water in the apocalypse?! It's time you experience the sun's fire in the apocalypse!" As soon as I was dragged outside, boils appeared all over my skin, my bodily fluids began to ooze out, and I started to suffocate. Even so, Lisa simply snorted. "Mom, Dad, and Hal died trying to get your heart medicine, and you can't stand being outside for a second?! No, you will only return inside after two hours!" I tried to tell her that the heat was burning my heart, but I couldn't breathe and hence couldn't speak. In just an instant, my soul floated out of my body and out of the shelter… only to see my parents celebrating Hal's birthday. Even Lisa was there, putting a birthday hat on Hal's head. "Happy birthday, Hal! We've punished Neil for three years now. Are you satisfied with your gift?" My adopted brother, Hal Crawford, pretended like he cared. "Is Neil going to be alright, standing out in the sun?" My parents clapped his shoulders, assuring him, "We lowered the heat to only 122°F. He'll live." So it was just a hoax of an apocalypse. My parents were alive, while I was just being punished for three years because I accidentally knocked Hal off his feet. They just didn't know that 122°F would put enough strain on my heart to kill me.

The police officer turned the tablet screen around and held it in front of me. I stared at it for several seconds and read the information again and again. The household registration system showed my family status: divorced, one child. Child’s name: Luke Zane. Date of birth: June 1, 2019. My name was Maya Delaney. I was female, unmarried. "Miss Delaney." The officer frowned. "The child got separated from his family at the mall. As his only legal guardian, how can you deny that you ever gave birth to him?" On June 1, 2019, I worked as an exhibition planner and flew all over the country. I spent nearly 300 nights a year in budget hotels or curled up in plastic airport chairs. On Children’s Day, my ride‑hailing records showed my exhausted trip at 3 o’clock in the morning from the international expo center to the airport. I was so busy I barely had time to find a boyfriend. I could not have had a child. So then, whose child was the five‑year‑old boy who sat on the police station bench and cried his eyes out?

My husband, Nathan Carter, had taken an interest in a young woman he'd been sponsoring through school. He hired her as our housekeeper with a generous salary. From that day on, my monthly allowance dropped from 120,000 dollars to just 120 dollars. She had to approve every expense for our household of more than a dozen people. Even the cook couldn't buy an extra bag of salt without getting her permission first. Furious, I went to Nathan to complain. He only smiled, looking completely unconcerned. "I like how careful she is with money. Don't you think it's cute?" Later, Nathan's mother accidentally fell from an upstairs balcony. She needed emergency surgery that would cost 30,000 dollars. I immediately called Nathan. "Your mom fell from upstairs. She needs surgery, and it costs 30,000. Hurry and have someone bring the money to the hospital." A mocking laugh came from the other end of the line. It wasn't Nathan. "A fall like that would only cause a few broken bones. Why would it cost 30,000? Ms. Smith has always been reckless with money. She has no idea how hard Mr. Carter works to earn it. If you won't help him save money, I will!"

After five years in captivity, I finally came home. Except there was already another daughter in my place, and somehow, Mom, Dad, and my brother, Samuel Lewis, had all developed strange "conditions." When I broke my ankle and texted Dad for help, he took forever to show up. "Sorry. My eyesight's been acting up lately. I couldn't make out the location you sent me." I was allergic to seafood, but Samuel brought me seafood chowder anyway. "Sorry. You know how bad my memory is. I forgot you couldn't eat it." One winter night, I came home without my keys and spent five hours locked outside before Mom finally opened the door in the middle of the night. "My hearing problems flared up again. I didn't hear you knocking." Desperate to fit into this family, I smiled and told them it was fine. Every single time. Until today, when my advisor gave me two choices. I could stay at my university and pursue my graduate degree there. Or I could join a highly classified research project across the country, where I'd live on a secure campus and wouldn't be allowed home for ten years. Holding both applications, I walked through the front door, intending to ask my family which one they thought I should choose. Then I saw Dad, whose eyesight was supposedly so bad, pick a single cat hair off Brie Lewis, my sister's collar, without even wearing his glasses. Mom, with her intermittent hearing loss, heard Brie give the slightest cough and immediately rushed to the kitchen to make her a hot drink with honey and pear. And Samuel, whose memory was supposedly terrible, sat at the piano playing a melody Brie had casually hummed a month ago. He didn't miss a single note. That was when I finally understood. Around Brie, all their conditions miraculously disappeared. And suddenly, I knew there was no reason to ask them anything. I tore up the application to stay at my university and texted my advisor: [I've made my decision. I'm joining the classified project.]

During the Spring Hunt, my Alpha mate's adopted sister, Susie Blackwood, used the bow I'd designed for him to shoot two werewolves in the forest. The wounded were rushed to the healing center. Susie was so terrified she broke down in tears. Charles Blackwood immediately paid someone to take the fall for her, then booked two flights heading north. He didn't call to let me know until after he'd landed. "Susie's not in a good place right now. I'm taking her somewhere to clear her head. Stay home while we're gone, and don't bother me unless it's important! "She needs peace and quiet." I was standing outside the emergency room, so frantic that tears streamed down my face. "You need to come to the healing center right now. Your—" Before I could finish, Charles cut me off sharply. "Is this really the time for this? You're still pulling these jealous stunts! I'm not even in the pack right now. "Don't call me unless it's important." Then he ended the call. What Charles didn't know was that the ones lying on the operating table, the ones Susie had shot, were his parents.

The year Caroline Fox left to study abroad, I sold the old house my parents left me and scraped together 160,000 dollars to cover her tuition and living expenses. Before she left, Caroline told me she wanted to take out an additional loan as a financial safety net while she was overseas. The bank wouldn't approve it unless a family member guaranteed it. So I signed. She told me, "When I come back, I promise I'll take care of you for the rest of your life." Five years later, she came home, landed a job at a major corporation, and filled her social media with pictures of herself at fancy cocktail parties. When my son got sick and ended up in the hospital, I swallowed my pride and called her. She answered with, "Who's this?" I took his medical records to her office building and waited outside. When she saw me, she frowned and asked, right in front of her coworkers, "Are we close?" I didn't make a scene. Instead, I went home and spent the whole night sorting through old paperwork until I found the guarantee agreement I had signed before she left. Over the past five years, Caroline had repeatedly renewed the loan and borrowed more money without telling me. Now, she wanted to buy a house, but her mortgage application had hit a snag. The bank discovered that her existing loan was still outstanding, with me listed as the guarantor.

My father hated me. He said I could never measure up to my sister. He also said I was the one who had killed my mother and destroyed the happy family of three they should have had. Every year on the anniversary of Mom's death, Dad took only my sister to visit her grave. On my eighteenth birthday, I was hospitalized for a heart condition. I called him as carefully as if I were asking for something unforgivable. His voice turned hard. “Today is your mother's death anniversary, and you chose now to pretend you're sick? What are you trying to pull?” My sister's voice drifted through the phone. “Maybe Stella thinks that if she gets sick, you'll love her the way you loved Mom.” She knew exactly where to strike. Dad hung up without another word and blocked my number. What he didn't know was that this was the last chance I would ever give him. My maternal grandmother had been waiting for me to come home and inherit everything she had left for my mother—including the companies she had once funded for my father.

I was an elite sniper in the special forces, and my best friend was a brilliant sniper too. She died after enduring unimaginable torture when she was captured while covering my escape. The military's top brass and her father, a general, demanded that I reveal the truth about that mission so they could honor her as a fallen hero. However, in front of everyone, I claimed I could not remember a thing. Her father was so enraged that he vomited blood on the spot. My comrades called me a coward and a traitor. Just when I was about to be sent before a military court, my fiancé, Sean Lawson, stood against the opposition and saved me. He promised to take me away from all the trouble. However, the moment I got into his car, he personally injected me with a powerful sedative. "You love keeping your mouth shut, don't you? Fine. Let's see how you like spending the rest of your life unable to speak." He threw me into an overseas black-site prison, where I endured relentless beatings and branding with red-hot irons, all so I could suffer the same despair he believed his beloved had endured before her death. Finally, he strapped me into a military-grade deep memory extraction device, determined to broadcast that so-called 'truth' to the entire world.

After winning 20 million dollars in the lottery, I immediately quit my job and head to the hospital. Having worked as a programmer at a major company for over a decade, I've accumulated a host of health problems, such as hemorrhoids, cavities, chronic gastritis, cervical spondylosis, and more. I get treated for everything at one go, and the pain is so bad that I can barely even walk. My aunt, Jessica Davidson, happens to see me like that and spreads rumors about me having stage-4 cancer and barely hanging on in the ICU. My relatives all send me well-wishes on my social media accounts. I don't bother clarifying myself because I'm too distracted by the pain, and also, I'm too busy recovering. As it turns out, my own mother is the first one to visit me at the hospital with some documents—a waiver of my inheritance rights. She tells me, "You need to transfer that house you own to your younger brother before you die."

On the day my adoptive father, Claude Bolton, is buried, my biological parents, along with the fake heiress, Gwen Walton, force their way into the funeral hall to pressure me into signing a statement of forgiveness. They say Gwen is about to be recommended for graduate school, so she can't afford to have a disciplinary record for driving a mechanic to his death. My biological mother, Lorna Pollard, holds my hand and cries. "Claude is already dead. Don't ruin Gwen too." My biological father, Joseph Walton, presses the pen into my palm. "The dead shouldn't stand in the way of the living." Gwen kneels in front of the casket, crying pitifully. "Ada, I'm sorry. I didn't know Mr. Bolton would really jump off the building." Just as I am about to sign, the funeral home calls. They say a pearl button fell out of Dad's hand before cremation. Meanwhile, Lorna's cuff is missing a button today.

My uncle got obsessed with the Great Work, fasting and doing breathwork at home every day. After he passed out from low blood sugar, they also found a stone. He insisted it was the Philosopher's Stone, and that he was almost there. I spent three days working on him, got him to believe in science, and had the stone taken out. Once he was eating properly again, his labs came back into the normal range. Then he came across AI-generated videos about people achieving immortality in the modern world, and decided I was the one who'd ruined him. He drugged me with sleeping pills, and while I was out, he threw me off the roof. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day they took him to the hospital. This time, I'm going to watch exactly how he ascends.

When I went to register my son, Cody Vantor, for medical insurance before his first year of kindergarten, I was told I wasn’t his biological mother. "Are you sure this is your child? The system shows a different woman listed as the mother." I said nothing. I quietly snapped a photo of the unfamiliar home address, then followed it to the neighboring complex. When he saw me, my husband, Dorian Vantor, froze. His hand instinctively moved to block the doorway. "So you found out. But making a scene won’t change anything. I haven’t treated you badly these past three years." I looked past him, and my body went cold. The woman behind him was my younger sister, Summer Walsh, fresh out of college. She handed him a glass of water and gave me an apologetic smile. "Don’t blame me, Lennie. The doctor said I have postpartum depression. I can’t handle hearing a baby cry. Thank you for raising Cody for me all these years. I really am grateful." Just then, Cody, who had been waiting in the car downstairs, ran up. He rushed into Summer’s arms like it was second nature, then turned to look at me. "Aunt Lenora, don’t cry. Mommy said you’re a good person. That’s why she asked you to help. Daddy said if I behave and call you ‘Mom’ at your house, I can come back on weekends to see my real Mommy."

Since I was running late to pick up my son, Kyrie Stone, from school, I did not have time to change out of my work clothes from the construction site inspection. Right at the preschool entrance, I ran into one of his classmates' parents. The man, Adam O'Neil, looked me up and down and asked, "You're Kyrie Stone's father, right?" I nodded politely, about to introduce myself. However, he suddenly scowled and snapped, "No wonder he acts so poorly behaved at school. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree!" I frowned immediately. "What nonsense are you talking about?" He scoffed, getting even more aggressive. "Nonsense? Kyrie shows up to school wearing weird clothes and brings all these ridiculous toys. It's distracting my daughter, Sarah, so much that her grades are slipping." I was speechless, wondering how Sarah O'Neil's declining grades were Kyrie's fault. When I stayed silent, Adam got even bolder. "Just look at those dusty clothes you're wearing. Do you even have the money to send Kyrie to an elite preschool like this, or are you just some laborer trying to keep up appearances?" I thought Adam was insane. After all, Kyrie was attending our family-owned preschool. How was that trying to keep up appearances?

Every question on the college entrance exam was one I had seen before. After I handed in my papers, I was the first to rush out of the examination hall. I said to the reporter who was interviewing me, "The questions aren't hard. I hope I'll go to the same school as him!" After I said that, someone yelled, "Cut! Thanks to our generous boss, everyone will get five hundred dollars in tips!" Everyone cheered as my mother slowly walked over. "After you returned to us, you've always scored better than Courtney, and she's been depressed because of it. She said that her entire life was built on a lie. "So, for you—our biological daughter—we built an exact replica of an examination hall and staged this entire fake exam just to cheer her up." My boyfriend, Kyle Reid, held a bouquet, looking perfectly unconcerned "Actually, Courtney and I took the real exam in the examination hall next door. "Do you really think that you'll be the top scorer? Courtney's the one who came up with your papers. You can just treat it as practice. "You can repeat your senior year, and we'll wait for you at Southvale University." I clenched my fists and smiled bitterly. As expected, once I said my birthday wish out loud, it would no longer come true. What they didn't know was that the university I had received guaranteed admission to wasn't Southvale University. It was the Federal Institute of Defense Technology.

Nine years after my hands were burned beyond restoration, I woke in the middle of the night with pain shooting through my fingers. I lay there, barely able to move, when I heard my mother talking on the phone in the living room. "Hey, you've had a hard time too. You've been taking care of him all these years. He was such a gifted pianist, and now look at what he's become…" My mother let out a quiet laugh. "A hard time? You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this day." There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then she continued, "I was the one who hid his passport. And I was the one who started the fire." The voice on the other end went silent. "I only meant to make him miss his flight. I never thought the fire would get out of control. I never meant for him to end up like this." After a pause, I heard my aunt's faint voice. "But his hands…" My mother was silent for two seconds. When she spoke again, her voice was colder than before. "Maybe it's better this way. With his hands ruined, he can't play the piano. He can't go abroad. He can't leave me here all by myself. "All these years, he's had to rely on me for everything, even eating and getting dressed. Don't you think he'll be grateful to me for taking care of him?" I lay completely still in bed, my ten twisted fingers throbbing as if the flames were licking at them all over again. So that was the truth. I had not been trapped in this house for nine years because life had dealt me a cruel hand. My own mother had burned my future to the ground with her own hands. Lying there in the darkness, I kept thinking about all the possibilities. What if I had not rushed back when that phone call came the night before my flight? What if the fire had never taken my hands? What would my life have looked like? Then I opened my eyes again. I had returned to the day I received my visa.

I'm Alpha Bruce Smith's most docile and understanding daughter. In fact, I'm the type who obeys literally anyone's orders. When my parents pick me up at the Rogues' den and take me back to the pack, my adopted younger sister, Andrea Smith, begins making fun of me. "I thought the Rogues killed you for sure! I never thought you'd be able to return to the pack, safe and sound! You really are lucky! Why can't you just die already?" With hollow eyes, I just nod quietly. Then, I extend a claw and move to stab myself in the neck without hesitation. My parents are terrified out of their wits. They quickly stop me from hurting myself. But my older brother, Tobias Smith, remains impassive about my condition. "You really love attention that much, huh? What makes you think you can still remain my sister, anyway? You might as well drink some wolfsbane and die!" That night, I grab a bottle of poison and down it immediately. Tobias discovers me afterward. He whisks me to the hospital anxiously. When the doctor tells him that I'd die if he were two minutes later in discovering me, Tobias' complexion turns pale. Some time after that, when Andrea snatches my necklace from me, she loses her balance and falls down the stairs. Her fiance points at me while exclaiming, "It's just a necklace! If anything were to happen to Andrea, you'd better pay the price with your life!" Pay the price with my life, huh? I don't hesitate to draw the silver sword out of its hilt on the wall. Then, I slash my throat with it. My parents happen to witness it. Shell-shocked, they scream at the top of their lungs. "Call an ambulance! Hurry!" Tobias tries to stem the blood flow with trembling hands. He's completely stunned by the ordeal. What everyone doesn't know is that they've been calling me a lowlife during my five-year stay in the Rogues' den. Even if I could live 100 times over, those lives are nothing compared to Andrea. Even if I gave my life, it would never be enough—because to them, my life was never worth anything in the first place.

I'm the long-lost biological son of one of the richest families in the country. The moment I step out of the train station, I spot the Ashfords waiting for me, holding a sign with my name on it. But before I can say anything, the family's adopted son, Josh Ashford, takes several frightened steps back. "Asher? Is that really you?" I stare at him, confused. I've only just arrived here, and I've never met him before. But Josh is already shaking. "Mom, Dad, it's him! He's back… He's the guy who bullied me in high school! He locked me in the equipment room, put dead rats in my backpack, and made my life so miserable I almost dropped out!" Graham Ashford's face darkens, and he looks at me with disgust. Evelyn Bennett, my biological mother, pulls Josh behind her and glares at me. "Asher, I can't believe you would do something so awful! What kind of son have we brought into this family? Apologize to Josh right now!" The reporters waiting nearby rush toward us, cameras flashing nonstop. I stand there, completely stunned. I have no idea what he's talking about. I dropped out before I even finished middle school. How can I have bullied someone in high school when I never even got in one?