Hypocrisy Biological Family Short Stories & Novels

The year my sister turned fifteen, my father, Grant Davis, became obsessed with holding auctions at home. Everything in the house, from a plate of meat to a turn with the washing machine, from school lunch money to after-school activity fees, had to be won by bidding with family credits. I worked odd jobs until I dropped, sleeping only three hours a night, and finally saved up a thick stack of family credits, the paper soft and warped from my sweat. All Melody had to do was sit on the couch and shed a few tears, and my father would stuff fistfuls of credits into her arms. "Girls deserve to be spoiled. Can't have Melody feeling left out." That day, the item up for auction was an old necklace that had belonged to my grandmother, Ruth Bennett. Eyes burning, I pushed everything I had onto the table. "Eight thousand." Melody tossed out ten thousand without a second thought, her voice sweet and wheedling. "This necklace would go perfectly with my new dress." I begged my father through tears. "This is the only thing Grandma ever left me. Please." My father slapped me so hard my ears rang and my vision blurred. "Highest bidder wins. That's the rule! You're too poor to win, so don't blame anyone else!" Melody snatched the necklace, gave it a look of disgust, and casually tossed it into the roaring fireplace. "Oops, the fire's getting low. This'll make good kindling." I threw myself at the fireplace. The back of my hand split open instantly from the heat, the skin blistering and peeling away. They left, slamming the door behind them, complaining that my screaming was bad luck in the house. Later, I couldn't stop thinking. If I put my own life on the auction block, how many credits would you bid?

The day my father's enemies kidnapped and tortured me, my family was celebrating my sister Isa's eighteenth birthday. The next day, she would be handed over to the Cammarata family, our rivals, to seal an alliance through marriage. My father is a Don with more enemies than he can count. When I was ten, the two families arranged a marriage alliance to keep the peace. If the two families ever went to war again, the one who'd been married off would be killed first to send a message. On the day they chose the bride, my sister grabbed the token first: a signet ring. From that day on, she was the one this family loved. My mother always said Isa was suffering in my place. So I had to give way to her in everything and protect her. Whatever my sister wanted, I had to hand it over. When we were little, an assassination attempt forced our car off the road. I clutched her to me during the crash and broke my own leg. When my mother arrived, she pulled Isa into her arms first, then turned on me. "Your sister's arm is all scraped up. Couldn't you have protected her better?" I pretended it didn't matter and went to the hospital alone. But I cried anyway while they set my leg. This time, when they kidnapped me, I dropped to my knees and begged for one call for help. I didn't hesitate for a second. I called my parents. My mother had already lost her patience. "Do you have to compete for attention even on your sister's birthday? After today, you can do whatever you want. I'm hanging up." But there wasn't going to be an after today, Mom. As I took my last breath while they tortured me, one thought filled my mind. If I died in my sister's place, would that finally make them happy?

My parents had always played favorites. On my birthday, the house was completely empty. Meanwhile, my older brother, Howard Moore, posted a nine-photo grid on social media, showing off a huge birthday cake. In every picture, Mom and Dad were gathered around him, smiling like they couldn’t be prouder. I called them. Laughter poured through the phone from the other end. Still, I gathered every bit of courage I had and asked softly, “Why didn’t I even get a happy birthday?” The line went silent for a second. Then Mom’s bright, smiling voice came through. “Because Howard is handsome. Taking him out makes us look good. But you? Those hooded eyes and that bulbous nose. Honestly, if we didn’t feel sorry for you, we would’ve gotten rid of you a long time ago.” Howard took the phone from her and said gently, “You know you’re adopted, right? Did you really think you were one of us?” I stood there for a long time, too stunned to move. After that, I stopped talking. But deep down, I still craved the love of my biological parents. So I secretly made a post online, looking for my biological family. I didn’t expect Howard to find it. He took a screenshot and sent it to the school’s anonymous gossip account. “The fake Moore kid is looking for his parents. Anyone lose an ugly little kid?” I cried for a long time. Then late that night, I walked past their bedroom door, which had been left slightly open. Howard’s laughter floated out, clear and bright. “He actually believed it! This is hilarious! Let’s hire someone to pretend to be his parents. I can’t wait to see him on his knees, begging us.” Dad took a sip of his tea. “Do whatever you want.” Mom added, “Just don’t go too far.” Outside the door, my fingers slowly loosened around the doorknob.

My dad, Nathaniel Carter, was the richest man in town, yet my monthly allowance was only fifty dollars. Mom always told me that Dad had abandoned us because he was ashamed that I was a girl. When I was six, he left behind nothing but divorce papers and disappeared. I never saw him again. That was until I saw him on TV years later, making headlines for spending a billion dollars on a skyscraper for his new son. I had spent years resenting him. I was his child too. Why had he treated me like I never existed? Then one day, I unexpectedly ran into his new son. The first thing he said to me was, “Where have you been all these years? Dad has been looking everywhere for you.”

For three years, my mother had managed $800,000 of my savings. She claimed it was necessary because my wife was a livestream shopping host who spent recklessly. I trusted her. She was my mother—surely, she wouldn’t betray me. Then my warehouse caught fire. The client demanded $60,000 in compensation and threatened to send me to prison if I failed to pay. After countless calls, I finally reached my mother. She fell silent for three seconds before saying, “I don’t have any money.” As the alarm blared and the warehouse burned, I suddenly realized something: In three years, I had never once asked her where my $800,000 went.

After my father-in-law, Anthony Randall, has undergone a coronary artery bypass surgery, he decides to visit the company to inspect the new project. I've ordered the project department to prepare a stable, smooth-riding man basket. But what I receive is a dangerous-looking man basket that doesn't have any safety measures installed in it. Anisa Howell, the first love of my husband, Conner Randall, speaks up mockingly at that moment. "Since your junk-collecting dad wants to collect more junk in the construction site, it's only natural that I, the person in charge of this project, hold the fort for Mr. Randall. "Then again, I've always been a soft-hearted person. This man basket might be malfunctioning, but it's perfectly adequate to send you guys to your destination." Realization dawns on me immediately. Anisa must have mistaken Anthony as my actual dad, who works as a farmer in the countryside. I'm about to explain to her that Anthony has just undergone a heart surgery and cannot suffer from any emotional distress caused by any factors, including tall heights. But Anisa quickly commands her workers to shove us into the man basket before pulling down the lever, which will cause it to ascend rapidly. Poor Anthony has gone deathly pale from the fright. He keeps clutching at his chest hopelessly the whole time. But Anisa has the audacity to flaunt her privileges over the walkie-talkie. "I'm a VIP of a bungee-jumping club. Today, I'll let you have a taste of what it feels like to soar through the skies."

My brother, Dylan Skinner, was diagnosed with kidney failure and needed a transplant. My mother shoved a voluntary donation form in front of me and tried to force me to sign it, but I refused. I told her that my immune system was weak, and I wouldn't survive with only one kidney. She answered with two hard slaps across my face and started yelling. "Dylan is dying, and you're still thinking about yourself? How could you be so selfish?" To force me into it, she stormed into my advisor's office, grabbed my research samples, and said she wouldn't give them back unless I agreed. As I met her hate-filled gaze, something inside me went completely numb.

My parents want my sister, Rachael Booth, to marry rich so badly they try to talk her into dropping out of high school during her senior year. I do everything I can to stop them. "Mom, Dad, women can take care of themselves these days. Besides, wealthy families care about education too!" They back down because of my words. But later, Rachael never marries into money. Instead, she falls for a hooligan in college and ends up in an abusive marriage. Mom screams at me, "This is all your fault, you jinx! If we hadn't listened to you, Rachael would be living the high life right now!" Dad is just as furious. "You just want to ruin her life, don't you? You just can't stand to see your sister happy!" Rachael buys into their narrative completely, genuinely believing I am the one who ruined her future. One night, she kills me with a knife. When I open my eyes, I realize I'm right back to the day Mom is trying to convince Rachael to give up on college.

My mother, Winona Barlowe, who was the medical director at the hospital, decided to let my intern sister, Mia Barlowe, practice her skills by performing a brain tumor surgery on me. I begged my mother to assign another doctor since it was my only chance at survival. She slapped me across the face and cried out, "How did I ever give birth to a selfish girl like you? Mia just started her internship. Can’t you give her the chance to practice?" When I died from the botched surgery, she turned gray overnight.

Ten years after my wealthy family took me back, I died in the rental house my billionaire parents had dumped me in. My son was three. Just to mess with me, the kidnapper gave me three chances to call for help. If even one person was willing to come see me, he'd spare my child. The first call was to my father, the man who'd spent fifteen years searching for me. He was busy directing the staff as they set up my adoptive sister's birthday party. When he picked up, he barked, "Estelle Emerson, seriously? Can you go one week without causing a scene? It's your sister's birthday. I'm busy. Don't kill the vibe." The second call was to my mother, the woman who brought me home and changed my name from Dixie to Estelle. But Vera snatched the phone and laughed so hard she could barely get the words out. "Estelle, seriously? If you're gonna make something up, at least make it believable. You look so broke you probably don't even have fifty bucks. What kidnapper would pick you?" The third time, I called Luca's father, my legal husband. He said he was in a meeting and didn't have time to play games with me. He also said that if I behaved myself, he'd agree to take me home for dinner next week. After the final call ended, I looked at the grinning kidnapper in despair and sent the last two messages of my life. A photo of myself covered in blood. And a short message, every word sincere. [I'm really going to die. In my next life, don't bring me home.]

The day my admissions results came in, I ran into the living room with my laptop still open in my arms. "Mom, Dad, I got into Bedford University. Now I'll finally be in the same city as Derek and Grayson." No one answered. The living room was empty. A city-shaped magnet from Bedford was stuck to the fridge door. Grayson Whitfield had given it to me the year before. "Once you get in," he'd told me, "I'll take you all over the city." I'd held on to that promise like a lifeline, using it to push through one sleepless night after another. But now, three plane ticket order receipts sat tucked beneath that same magnet. Mom. Dad. My sister. Destination: Bedford. I stood there for a long moment before I noticed the new video posted in the family group chat. My brother, Derek Radley, was pulling my sister's suitcase along, smiling in a way I hadn't seen in a while. "Welcome to Bedford, Amber. Time to get you started on the Foundation Program." Grayson stood beside her, holding out a bouquet of sunflowers. "Is Claire going to be mad at me?" Amber asked, sounding small. Grayson only laughed. "She won't. She's sensible. She always is." My fingertips went cold, one degree at a time.

After my adopted younger sister, Candace Lane, is reunited with her birth parents, she develops severe psychological issues. Hence, to go along with her treatment, every Thanksgiving becomes the one day when everyone will spoil her. No matter what she requests on that day, nobody is allowed to refuse. This Thanksgiving, Candace takes off her hat to reveal the scar on her forehead and the jagged mess that is her hair. "A few days ago, I had an episode and cut off my hair. Since Lena's hair is so long, it would be perfect to cut and make into a wig for me." I set down my cutlery and slowly shake my head. I haven't cut my hair in 18 years, all because I want my parents to be the ones to cut it for me on my wedding day. Seeing as that day is coming soon, I plan on buying Candace a wig for now. "Maybe you should—Mmph!" Before I can get more than a few words out, Dad has already pressed a warning hand on my shoulder, while my fiancé, Peter Lipton, shakes his head at me and stuffs a bite of spicy lobster into my mouth. Mom heads for the kitchen and returns with a pair of scissors. With a snip, she cuts my hair off to ear length. As Candace's lips curve into a smile, my heart thoroughly shatters in my chest. Eight years. For the past eight years, she has taken away something of mine during every Thanksgiving. A rosary necklace Mom gifted me, a beautiful emerald bangle from Grandma—it didn't matter. Even when Candace already has something better than mine, she still wants to take mine. Peter leans over to murmur in my ear, "This is Candace trying to save herself, so we have to go along with her wishes. With us by your side, all those materialistic things aren't important. If it truly bothers you that much, we can always just wait till your hair grows back before we marry." Peter is her psychologist, and turning Thanksgiving into the day everyone spoils Candace is also his idea. The spiciness of the lobster has tears springing to my eyes. Shoving Peter away from me, I rush to the bathroom. As I stare at my messed-up hair and red lips, swollen due to my shellfish allergy, more tears well in my eyes. This time, I'm not waiting for anyone anymore.

I was not expecting to pick the wrong man to marry even after I had a chance to redo my life. In my previous life, I chose to marry James Howard, my then fiance. But he cheated on me with Verde Sala, a fake heiress, for three years. They even had a child together. For her sake, he broke my legs so that I would hand over my role as the principal dancer to her. This time, I chose to marry Elwood Howard, James’s uncle. I thought that this meant that I had escaped my fate and could fulfill my dreams, but on the day the principal dancer was supposed to be picked, I got into an accident again. After learning about this, Elwood sent Verde to jail, even if it meant offending all of the powerful people in the city. I was touched and thought that I had made the right choice in this life. That lasted for five years until I heard Elwood’s conversation with our son. “Dad, Verde said that you only married Mom so that you could provide a letter of forgiveness as the victim’s family. “Since Verde is out, could you divorce Mom? I want Verde to be my mother.” Upon hearing that, Elwood remembered my trust in him and shook his head. “No. I’ve betrayed your mother by destroying the evidence and giving Verde a new identity to avoid being indicted, so I’m going to make it up to her for the rest of her life. “She will always be my wife. Don’t ever say such things to your mother and make her sad.” The pain from before could not compare to the pain in my heart at that moment. Our marriage was just a scheme to protect Verde? Elwood only loved Verde? And my son was the same? If that was the case, I did not want Elwood anymore. Nor my son.

My mom bought me a house with zero down payment. For five years, I scrimped and saved until I finally paid off the mortgage. But then, she told me she wanted to transfer the house to her first love's son to use as his wedding home. When I said no, she pulled out the property deed and slapped it down in front of me. "The house is in my name. I'll give it to whoever I want. You'd better hand it over willingly, or don't blame me for forgetting we're family." So I pulled out another deed—this one with my name on it—and called 911. "Hello? I'd like to report a trespasser."

I discover Quilton Fuller's affair before our wedding, so I lie to him about having aborted our child. He hates me for that and gets engaged to a woman who looks just like me. On his wedding day, he video-calls me, wanting to show me his bride. However, he's greeted by the sight of me bloody and battered after being tormented by abductors. I beg him to at least save the baby in my womb, but he says to the abductors, "You'd better kill her and her child."

The day I get into Harton University, one of the top colleges in the country, everyone in town is proud of me. "Lindsay, you wouldn't be where you are today without your mom!" "Your dad is gone, and your mom had to raise you all by herself. It couldn't have been easy!" "We've all seen how much she's done for you over the years. Good deeds really do get rewarded." Mom smiles and tells me to get a bottle of good liquor from the cellar for everyone. I go down there, but instead of finding the liquor, I uncover a merit ledger hidden amongst the bottles. It is written in Mom's neat handwriting. "May 17. I deliberately poisoned our neighbor, Mr. Lowe, and killed him to gain blessings for my daughter's studies and help her become the top student in the country."

My boyfriend’s cousin went to live at his place after her divorce. Not only did she have a five-year-old, but she was even pregnant. She regarded my boyfriend as her support as if it were her right and blamed me for everything. She thought I had taken away her cousin. At a family gathering one day, her son splashed a drink at me and yelled, "You’re not allowed to steal my dad!"

On my birthday, my acceptance letter from Mar University finally arrived. Mom even did something completely out of character: she ordered my favorite strawberry cake. For a moment, I thought my parents had finally remembered that today wasn’t just the day for my brother’s medical checkup—it was my birthday, too. However, right after I blew out the candles, Mom pulled out my brother’s acceptance letter from a local community college. “Mason, your brother didn’t do well in his SATs, so he’ll only be able to get into a community college,” she said. “His health is poor, and he can’t handle the stress of retaking the SATs.” Dad cleared his throat, assuming his usual stance as the head of the family. “You two are identical twins, and you look completely alike,” he stated. “So we’ve talked it over. We’re going to have Ethan use your identification and report to Mar University in your place.” The sweet smell of strawberries filled my nose, but it only made me feel sick to my stomach. I stared at Dad, wondering if I had misheard him. “What about me, then?” Mom instantly grabbed my hand. “You’ll use Ethan’s identity to retake your senior year and try again next year,” she urged. “You’re in good health, and you’ve always gotten good grades. Isn’t it just a one-year delay?” It was that same excuse again. Ever since we were kids, I had to give up countless things just because my brother was frail. But this time, this was my life, and I didn’t want to give it up anymore.

When the university announced a nine-day break, my roommate started booking their tickets home on their phone while I was busy answering trivia questions on mine. This was my family rule. I had to answer questions to earn my allowance. There were ten questions, and every correct answer would get me $2. There were four levels for the trivia, which were Beginner Level, Intermediate Level, Advanced Level, and Expert Level. I did the trivia for seven years, from high school until my second year of university. One morning, my father, Norm Livingston, texted in the family group chat. [Whoever gets all ten questions correct, I'll pay for the ticket home during Thanksgiving.] I tried hard to suppress my excitement as I focused on answering the questions, but I got one wrong. I texted the results to Norm with clenched teeth and begged, [Dad, the questions this time were really difficult, but I got nine right. The train ticket is only $50. Can you cover it for me?] However, Norm replied right away with a voice note, and he berated me. "The rules are the rules. Look at your brother. He got all ten questions right and won himself the flight ticket. You should work harder to improve your knowledge. Stop thinking about having fun all the time." My younger brother, Ezra Livingston, texted the group with a screenshot of Norm transferring him the money for the ticket. [First-class ticket worth $1,000 to come home to your family.] The text was followed by another text from my older sister, Edith Livingston. [I specially set your questions at Beginner Level for you.] I stared at their texts and looked at my questions, which were at Expert Level, and I called my counselor after that. "Is it too late to submit my application to Gerasia as an exchange student?" I no longer wanted to reunite with my family during Thanksgiving.

I have a secret. Every year on my birthday, I'm taken to the blood donation room and made to give 400cc of blood. All because my mom once told me that the blood running through my veins belongs to a rapist. This is the only way I can wash away my original sin. Because of those words, at eighteen years old and weighing less than 80 pounds, I found myself lying on that donation chair once again. But the second I stepped out of the donation room, a document came flying at my face. I looked up in shock and met my mother's icy stare: "Sign it, and get the hell out of my house." It was a legal notice cutting all ties with me. I stood there frozen, cold down to my bones. Mom—didn't you say that once I'd donated blood eighteen times, I'd finally be your clean child?