Hypocrisy Familial Bond Short Stories & Novels

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.

I've been a liar for as long as anyone can remember. When I was seven, I told Mom that Jared smashed our piggy bank. She searched me instead and found the missing coins in my pocket. When I was 12, I insisted I didn't steal my classmate's notebook. Then it was found inside my backpack. When I was 18, I accused my stepfather of assaulting me. He produced photos proving he was out of state that night. By then, everyone knows exactly what I am. A compulsive liar. A daughter who will say anything. At 22, I sit in front of a camera with my psychiatric evaluation in my hands and start a livestream. "For the next three days, I'm going to show you what it's like to spend 22 years being called a liar."

I come home for the holidays to find four pairs of slippers beside the shoe cabinet. There's a pair for my dad, Dean Pratt, a pair for my mom, Nancy Kerr, and two pairs for my sister, Luna Pratt, including a spare. Mine isn't there. Although my sister attended school in another state, kept her room exactly as it was. Even her slippers sit by her bedside, waiting for her return. I had been away from home for three years. When I returned, I discovered that my belongings had disappeared one by one. And now, they hadn’t even kept a pair of slippers for me. I stand in the entryway, my feet bare. "Where’s my pair?" Mom pokes her head out. "You hardly ever come back, so I threw them away. They were taking up space." But the soles of my sister’s spare pair had already been worn smooth, and they were still neatly sitting in their original place. The next day, I buy a new pair for myself at the supermarket and put them beside the shoe cabinet. That night, I check the shoe cabinet and find them gone. Dad is watching TV on the couch. "Luna's classmate came over, so I gave them to her." "I just bought them." Dad doesn't even turn around. "It's just a pair of slippers. Get another one." Luna pauses. "Huh? I thought Mom had bought them for guests." It makes sense. Guest slippers were supposed to be thrown away once the guest had left.

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?

I died on the day I was supposed to receive the Silvermoon Devotion Medal from the pack. My family, though—they were busy celebrating my little sister winning the "Pack's Best Neighbor" award at her birthday party. While she made her wish for the whole family to love her forever, I dialed my fated mate, Alpha Theodore, begging for help. He cut me off with an impatient snap— "Diana, this is the most important moment of Elara's life. Quit pulling those petty stunts for attention." It was the ninety-ninth time he'd chosen her over me. But there won't be a next time. Because I'm already dead.

Three years ago, on a full moon night, my mother jolted awake at midnight, claiming the Moon Goddess had delivered a prophecy: On the day of my twentieth birthday, the feral gene inside me would spiral out of control. I would shift into a wolf and kill my sister. At first, my parents were skeptical. But after I awakened my wolf at eighteen, my sister would seize up whenever she was near me, clutching her chest and collapsing to the ground in violent fits of gasping. To protect her and force my wolf into dormancy, my parents resorted to every harsh measure they could devise. They poured suppression potions down my throat that ate away at my organs, and clamped a restraining collar around my neck so my sister could keep me on a leash. Eventually, my wolf vanished completely. And somehow, I survived to my twentieth birthday. A flash of joy hit me, and I reached for the cake on the table. My father backhanded me so hard I went flying. "That feral gene in your blood really is impossible to tame! "If anyone eats first, it's your sister. What makes you think you can touch it?" Clara stepped forward as if to soothe things over, but my mother pulled her behind her back, eyes full of wariness as she edged away from me. Then my father dragged me up to the attic and bolted the door shut. Through the door, they said, "Stay put and get through tonight. The prophecy will be broken. "After this, we'll give you half the love we've shown your sister." I sank my teeth into my lip, not daring to make a sound. Years of the suppression potion had already hollowed out my body. My consciousness was fading, piece by piece. Mom, Dad, in that dream the Moon Goddess sent you, did she happen to mention this part? That the one dying today might be me?

After surviving a kidnapping and being diagnosed with severe PTSD, I became the family's top priority. Every sharp object and glass item in the house was removed. The furniture was wrapped in thick foam padding, until not a single hard edge remained. My parents canceled all business trips. News broadcasts and violent movies were banned from the house. To help me feel safe, they even forced my younger brother, who had just earned a full scholarship to a top university, to stay home and keep me company around the clock. Everything changed on the night of my brother's lavish eighteenth-birthday celebration. When fireworks erupted across the sky without warning, I hallucinated instantly and grabbed my father's arm on instinct. "Dad, I've got a terrible headache. Can you take me back to the quiet room, please?" My father, who always told the world he treasured me like a jewel, suddenly grabbed me by the collar and dragged me to the edge of the rooftop terrace. "If you've got such a terrible headache, jump from here and end it all! "We've spent five years living like prisoners because of you, you worthless waste. "Today is your brother's coming-of-age, and you're pulling this again? "Jump! "Stop putting on that dying act every single day just to torture this family!" He squeezed my neck and shoved me impatiently. Then he straightened his expensive bow tie and walked toward the cheering crowd, as composed as ever. So he didn't see me stumble backward and crash through the half-broken railing. The wind screamed in my ears. I spread my arms like a kite cut loose from its string and plummeted.

To prove she wasn't playing favorites, I was the first person to donate blood at the Pack Blood Drive my mother had organized. The drive had been ordered by the North American Lycan Council after a rogue attack overwhelmed three regional blood banks. If Silverpine Pack met its quota before midnight, Mom would pass the final review for the promotion she had pursued for seven years. The collection bag had barely reached one hundred milliliters when my vision darkened. My heart battered against my ribs so hard that every beat hurt. I reached for the clamp on the tubing. "Could you stop? I think something is wrong." Tessa, the technician assigned to me, caught my wrist. "Do not touch the line. A standard unit is four hundred and fifty milliliters." She studied my bloodless face with open irritation. "Every other donor finished. If the director's daughter quits, what do you think people will say?" Mom stood only a few steps away, her brows furrowed. "Lyra, being my daughter does not exempt you from the rules. It means you should be especially careful to follow them. If your screening says you are eligible, finish the unit." I tried to remind her that my medical file carried a permanent donation restriction. Then I saw the temporary silver commission badge pinned above her heart. She had spent seven years earning it. If this was what she needed from me, I could endure a little longer. Blood continued sliding through the clear tube. By the time the third sample vial was filled, every sound in the hall seemed to move underwater. Before I lost consciousness, I had only one thought. I am sorry, Mom. I wanted so badly to help you reach the final number. This time, I do not think I can.

My family was the most famous line of witches at the royal court. My sister, Lilith Seyler, was famous for her lofty principles. I was the only one who knew she was a complete fraud. When the royal marriage decree arrived at House Seyler, she shut herself in her prayer room out in the woods and refused to come out. "Duke Edmund, your wealth and your power are dust to me. A proposal from a duke is no different than a proposal from a farmhand." Then she laid out three conditions for Duke Edmund. The Duke was to build a prayer room on his estate, since she needed quiet meditation and practice with the elements to keep her magic stable. Before the wedding, the Duke was to wash in mountain spring water, burn dragon's-breath incense for three straight days, and abstain from meat and strong liquor so he could come to her purified. And the Duke was to agree not to share her bed for three years, both to protect the source of her magic and to keep her perfectly focused and clear-headed for her studies. Duke Edmund Ashbourne gave a furious laugh. "I think I have come to the wrong place. Is this House Seyler or a convent? "If no one accepts this decree today, House Seyler is defying the King, and every last one of you will answer for it!" My father, Alistair Seyler, dropped to his knees in terror and begged Edmund for mercy. But no matter how my father and my stepmother, Cordelia Seyler, pleaded, my sister would not bend. She would take the decree only if the Duke agreed to her terms. "Duke Edmund, everything that happens in time and space is already decided. Two people with no destiny between them are meant to pass each other by. Why force me to say yes?" The Duke turned to leave in a rage, ready to bring the King's punishment down on House Seyler. I huddled in the corner, took a deep breath, rushed forward, and dropped to my knees. "I am Rowena Seyler, the second daughter of House Seyler. I will accept the decree in my sister's place!"

At 3:00 a.m., I was slapped awake. "Your sister had a panic attack. She spent two hours banging on your door, and you had the nerve to pretend you were asleep!" My parents stood at my bedside, faces rigid with fury. My sister, Faye Radford, was huddled in the arms of Kellan Garrett, my boyfriend since childhood. She shook with sobs. "Alina, you're so selfish." Kellan looked at me, his voice thick with disapproval. "You know Faye can't function without you." I had always been the only thing that calmed her down when the panic hit. The moment I tried to put any distance between us, she spiraled again. She was the reason I had given up my spot at a top prep school to transfer to the same public one she entered. She was the reason I ended up at the same ordinary state university, even after I earned one of the highest academic records in the district. Earlier that night, just before bed, I had received a job offer from one of the biggest firms in Bartley. "You're not taking that job in Bartley." My father left no room for argument. "The restaurant downstairs needs a waitress. Go apply tomorrow." "Faye can't get by without you." My mother settled Faye into my bed. "From now on, leave your door open at night and check in with Faye before you go to sleep." Kellan pulled the blanket over Faye and tucked in the edges with care. I watched the warm, picture‑perfect scene in front of me, then lowered my gaze and opened the email app on my phone. I accepted the offer from a renowned interior design firm in Lavenne. My start date was 5 days away. This time, I went after a life of my own.

I let my housekeeper’s son, Blake Livingston, stay at my house. Instead, he went to school and stole my identity, pretending to be me. One afternoon, our housekeeper, Fanny Livingston, brought food to school. When I reached for one of the containers, Blake said sarcastically, "Finn, this is the food my family’s housekeeper made for me. I may treat you like a brother, but that doesn’t mean you can just help yourself." Listening to our classmates whisper about me, I knew that in my previous life, I would have simply walked away. I wouldn’t even have bothered explaining myself. Unfortunately for him, I’d been reborn. Right in front of everyone, I dumped his lunch over his head. "You stay in my house for a few days, and suddenly you think you’re some rich kid? And your family has a housekeeper? Your mom barely makes enough working as one herself. You think she can afford to hire a housekeeper?"

I am an orphan who was adopted, yet I live like a king in my house. While my older brother, Eric Jones, sleeps in the attic, which is freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer, I get the nicest bedroom, the south-facing one with the best sunlight. Eric wears worn-out clothes from the flea market, the kind sold by the pound. As for me, I get new clothes from the mall every year. Some still have the tags on. Eric starts working at a construction site right after high school. As he works three shifts a day, his hands are covered in calluses. I, on the other hand, attend the best private high school in the city, where one year's tuition costs as much as two years of his wages. My adoptive mother, Dolores Bender, looks over my straight-A report card, wipes away her tears, and says, "Even if I have to sell everything we own, I'm putting you through college." Whenever relatives come over, they tell me how lucky I am to have been taken in by the kindest family on earth. That's what I've always believed, too, right up until Thanksgiving, when Eric had too much to drink.

My stepsister, Abigail Lambert, is accepted into Quailmont High School through a special admissions program. Her teachers say she has what it takes to get into Bromwich College, one of the country's top colleges. My mother, Harper Quinn, and my stepfather, David Lambert, are so thrilled that they reserve a private dining room at the nicest hotel in town to celebrate her achievement. Before the celebration, they make a special trip to Quailmont and spend two days there. They even pick out presents for Abigail. When they come home, they're carrying the latest computer, their faces glowing with excitement. "Zachary, is dinner ready yet? If not, put some ribs in the oven. They're Abigail's favourite. Make extra so you can have some, too." I'm already on it. The ribs are roasting in the oven, filling the kitchen with their aroma. The television in the living room is airing a report on a string of missing-child cases. Nearly ten children between the ages of three and sixteen have gone missing. All of them are believed to have been kidnapped by human traffickers. The kidnappings are becoming increasingly common. The report immediately catches Mom's attention. "I don't think we should let Abby go out alone this summer. Zac, be sure to keep an eye on her, alright?" she prompts. "Her tutoring lesson should be over by now. Zac, go pick her up when you're done." The delicious smell of ribs fills the kitchen, overwhelming me until I can barely breathe. Abigail is missing. She's been missing for 30 hours, and she's nowhere to be found.

I was Sofia De Luca, the only biological daughter of Marco De Luca, the most powerful Don. Then my parents adopted Celeste De Luca as my younger sister, and everything changed. My birthday party could be cancelled because she threw a fit. My place at the elite academy went to her. Even the ruby brooch my grandmother left me was taken away because she said she liked it. On nothing but Celeste's word, my parents branded me a traitor to the De Luca family and personally handed me over to a rival family as a hostage. I endured every kind of torment there. They toured the world with their adopted daughter and lived in luxury. They forgot me completely. It was only when Celeste finally caused a disaster too big to bury that they remembered I existed. But once I was actually dead, the regret drove them out of their minds. If there really is another life, I have only one wish. I hope they learn how to be decent parents. But I do not want to be their daughter again.

I had a knack for copying people. Back in elementary school, the principal's father called him "buddy", so that was how I addressed the principal for six straight years. On graduation day, the man practically threw a party when I finally walked out of his school. In middle school, a rich kid mocked me by chomping down on fresh raspberries right in my face. So I gobbled down a whole box and ended up in the ER from a severe allergic reaction. Since then, the rich kid would check the ingredient list before eating anything in front of me. By high school, the most popular girl in school accused me of bullying and threatened to overdose on sleeping pills. In response, I swallowed an entire bottle of pills and landed myself in the hospital for three days. The girl never tried to play the victim again. My friends became terrified that I'd pick up some terrible habits. Whenever we went to the movies, they preferred to keep it PG by watching Peppa Pig. It would be their worst nightmare if I were to hurt myself. One day, I was told that my biological parents had tracked me down. As soon as I was brought home, I stared at the girl who had taken my place. Right on cue, the girl clutched her chest and teared up. "Do you hate me? It's okay. I won't get in your way." She turned around and tried to throw herself off the stair railing. My parents caught her before she could jump and scolded me, "London has depression! Even the slightest bit of hurt can make her suicidal! Are you doing this deliberately?" I said nothing. My focus was on opening the window and stepping out of the window on the fourth floor.

After bringing me into this world, Mom develops postpartum depression. It lasts for 18 long years. On my fifth birthday, Dad buys me a small cake. Mom hurls it onto the floor. "I almost died giving birth to you, and you actually have the nerve to celebrate?" On my tenth birthday, Grandma forces me to kneel before Mom and press my forehead against the floor. "Your birthday is the day your mother suffered. You should be grateful she didn't strangle you at birth!" On my 15th birthday, I secretly make a wish, hoping Mom will get better soon. After overhearing me, she slaps me across the face. "I'll never get better as long as you're in my life!" On my 18th birthday, my family takes down my birthday candles and changes the name on the cake to "18 Years of Suffering". Mom makes her one and only wish in front of all our relatives. "I hope she never shows her face in front of me again." Grandpa and Grandma urge me to be the bigger person. After a prolonged silence, Dad says quietly, "Maybe your mom really will get better after you move out." I smile and nod before blowing out the candles in Mom's place. After returning to my room, I dig out the birthday cards I've saved for 18 years and carefully write on the last one. "Mom, this time, your wish will definitely come true."

On matriculation day, I carried my acceptance letter to the campus grounds to register alone. But before I could cross the threshold, the guards drove me back into the street with their anti-riot forks. Humiliated and bewildered, I reached for my phone to call my childhood friend, Daisy Reid. A sharp laughter rippled through the receiver. “Violet, are you truly that blind behind those glasses? The letter you swept off the desk was a forgery I mocked up. Your actual one is still sitting at home.” Panicked, I hastily booked a return ticket and hurried back to search for my letter. I scoured the house for hours, turning up nothing. Just then, Daisy’s personalized ringtone sang out from my palm. “Stop looking. “Bryan has it. He’s over at Millfield now.” Without a moment’s hesitation, I boarded the train to Millfield. But the second I stepped out onto the platform, a video call from Daisy flashed onto my display. “You gullible fool, did you genuinely travel all that way to hunt down Bryan? “It was just a joke. “Truth be told, the guards didn’t chase you off because of a counterfeit letter. I tipped them off that you were hauling concealed explosives…” She swung the phone around, showing Bryan Hawke, another childhood friend, who was dotingly fanning her with a brochure. Directly behind them stood my brother Harry, who was supposedly halfway across the globe on an extended getaway. “Hey Violet, what’s with the face? Learn to take a joke for once,” he teased with a chuckle. I could not move an inch. Turned out his elaborate cover story of an overseas holiday was nothing more than a ruse to escort Daisy to her new college. Gazing at the three laughing faces, something dawned on me. Their cruel entertainment, paid for with my dignity for eighteen years, had run its course.

When Mom gave birth to my baby sister, Jocelyn Hanson, she'd reserved an entire floor of the hospital. The next day, a young, handsome nurse named Mike Sutton kept watching her. He told Mom she needed to rest and insisted on taking Jocelyn next door to feed her. Back then, I didn't know any better, and Mom saw no reason to be suspicious. So she let him take Jocelyn. That same day, Mike vanished with Jocelyn. We never saw either of them again. Mom never forgave herself. She sank into a deep depression and eventually took her own life. Dad couldn't handle what had happened. He left me with Grandma, then took his own life too. Just like that, I lost everyone. I shut myself off from the world, and less than two years later, I fell from a balcony because my nanny wasn't watching me. None of us escaped a tragic end. 18 years later, Mike resurfaced as Jocelyn's adoptive father. He brought her back to the Hanson family, and everything my family had left behind ended up in their hands. Even on his deathbed, he still bragged to anyone who would listen, "I sure didn't raise her for nothing." Then I get a second chance. I'm three years old again, back on the day after Jocelyn was born. Mike pushes open the door and comes in. "Ms. Hanson, it's time to feed the baby. Why don't I take her next door so you can get some rest? Kiddo, how about I take your little sister next door so she can have some milk?" His warm smile makes me shudder. All at once, I remember the pain of losing Mom and Dad in my previous life. I gather my courage and shout, "No! My mom can feed her. We don't need you!"

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.

The day I finish my college entrance exam, I drag my suitcase back to my parents' house downtown. When Mom opens the door, the first thing she says is, "Now that your college entrance exam is over, stay home for a while." She says a while, not for good. There are three children in our family. My older brother, Samuel Stroud, and my younger sister, Isabelle Stroud, have always lived with our parents, while I was raised by my grandparents. Samuel has his own study, while Isabelle has her own bedroom. I sleep in the living room. Everything they give me is temporary. My toothbrush is disposable, my slippers are disposable, and even my towel is disposable. I don't even have a key to the house. "You don't come home often," Mom always says. "What do you need a key for?" So every time I come back, I stand outside the door like a guest, waiting for someone to let me in. But this time, they finally give me a key. Samuel places it in my palm with a smile. "We're going on a trip for a few days. You can stay home and get some proper rest." On the coffee table sit four plane tickets, neatly arranged in a row. They're for Dad, Mom, Samuel, and Isabelle—but not me. I look down at the key I've waited 12 years to have, and suddenly, I laugh. I finally understand why they gave it to me. It isn't a key meant to welcome me home. It's a reminder that it's time for me to leave.