Plot Twists Short Stories & Male POV Biological Family Novels

It was not easy for me to be home for the long holidays, but my father ordered me to do the dishes after dinner. I was taken aback. "Don't you have a caregiver at home?" My mother frowned. "It's been hard on Harry to be taking care of us every day. Since you're home, you should let him take a rest, and do all the housework." I could not understand this. "But I paid a lot of money to hire him to take care of you and the housework. Why am I doing the work I paid him to do?" My words caused Harry Lambert to tear up, and they angered my parents as well. My mother frowned. "What's the point of bringing you up when we hardly see you in a year. At least Harry is considerate enough to stay by our side and take care of us." As for my father, he pointed at my nose. "You don't need to waste your time coming back anymore. Harry will be our son from now on! You can just get out and do whatever you want!" I smiled in exasperation. Work had been extremely busy for me, but I still gave my parents a handsome monthly allowance. Even the caregiver cost a lot of money, but they ended up treating him like he was something precious. If that were the case, I would stop paying for everything. I wanted to see if the caregiver would still be willing to act as their son and work for free.

My mother and I pushed ourselves, slaving away to pay for my girlfriend’s debt. The work was too hard on her, and she was soon diagnosed with lung cancer. By the time I arrived at the hospital with money for her treatment, my mother had taken her own life and left behind a note. “I can’t go on, Gab. The money is best put toward settling the debts. Noelle is a good kid. She loves you. She’s just lost her way. That’s all. You two should settle down once the debts are cleared.” I held my mother’s ashes and gave Noelle the thirty thousand dollars she had left behind. Back in the office, I overheard Noelle talking to several creditors. “Ms. Strom, Mr. Lamb has passed your test. What’s next on the agenda for him?” Noelle’s childhood friend, Charles, jumped into the conversation. “Gabriel has proven that he’s willing to be there for you through thick and thin, but will he stick around in wealth? Noelle pursed her lips. “I need to know if he genuinely loves me. If he isn’t blinded by greed when learning about who I am, I’ll marry him.” I stared at my mother’s ashes, tears rolling down my face. “Noelle, my mother was wrong about you, and so was I. I don’t want to marry you anymore.” I thought to myself.

From the time I could count coins, my parents hammered one lesson home—if a boy did not start saving young, he would never have enough to win himself a wife. They opened a bank account in my name, vowing that money would only ever flow in, never out. And so, every birthday bill and crumpled allowance found a home in that card. I kept funneling every hard-earned paycheck into that same old account even after I moved to the city to chase my own future. At that point, that habit was done more out of reflex than reason. However, I was blindsided by acute kidney failure after years of working myself to the bone. Suddenly, that money was not just savings—it was my lifeline. My dad's voice trembled on the phone. He claimed he had forgotten the password and urged me to just take out an online loan for now. I hauled myself to the bank, my feet still shaky from my dialysis treatment. I clutched my ID, determined to file a loss report and reset the password myself. The teller's words froze me in place. "Sir, this account was emptied six months ago." Panic surged through me. I demanded a full printout of every transaction. The statement of the most recent transfer glared up at me from the paper, stating, "Wedding fund for our precious daughter, Natalia Callahan, plus the down payment for her luxury car."

The day my wealthy biological parents finally took me home, my eight godmothers stood at the gate with tears in their eyes as they watched me leave. I had barely been back for two days when everything changed. It was all because I scored one hundred points higher than the fake heir on our final exam mock test. My own parents took me to an underground black market hospital. They were going to cut out my brain and transplant it into the fake heir. "You've already taken Braxton's place as the center of the family," my mother said coldly. "Giving him your brilliant brain is the least you can do to make it up to him." "Don't worry," my father added with a smile. "We'll find you an ordinary brain afterward. We'll take care of you for the rest of your life." Braxton grinned as he leaned close. "Let me tell you a little secret. I bribed the surgeon. The brain they're putting in your head belongs to an idiot. "Your life is over." I struggled with everything I had, refusing to give up. Then they dragged me out of the car. The moment I looked up at the building, I almost laughed. Was this not the hospital owned by my eight godmothers? When I left home, my eldest godmother — the CEO — had sent me off with red-rimmed eyes. She vowed back then, "If anyone in the Long family dares lay a finger on you, I'll bankrupt them before they know what hit them." My second godmother, a renowned surgeon, had said nothing at all. She had simply continued wiping down her scalpel. It seemed like Braxton and the Long family had walked straight into a trap they would never escape from.

After I set up the camera, I realized the clients booked for a family portrait were the parents and older brother I'd run from five years earlier. The moment our eyes met, my mother's smile froze. Her eyes went red, and she asked uncertainly, "Remy... is that you?" "You're alive?" With one finger resting on the shutter, I reminded them, "Keep smiling. Look at the camera." My father shot to his feet. "Are you really this spiteful? Five years of hiding from us. What grievance in a family takes five years to get over?" I looked at the dog beside my brother, also named Remy, and couldn't understand what he was angry about. They were the ones who'd spent my whole childhood telling me I existed for one reason: to be marrow for my brother. Even the dog got to be in the family portrait I wasn't allowed in as a child. I gave up on that family a long time ago.

I was a ghost hunter. My client had bought a haunted manor. Everyone who moved inside ended up losing their minds, so they paid me a huge sum to exorcise the place. However, I had a feeling that I had bitten off more than I could chew. After moving in and fighting against the evil ghost for half a year, I could not handle it anymore and decided to move out to rest for a bit. Before my mind even cleared up completely, Ronald Durkin, my uncle, called me. “Apollo, Jessica just finished sitting for her SATs. I want the entire family to go with her on her graduation trip, but hotels are just too expensive. I heard that you rented a huge manor in the capital. Why don’t you let us stay there?” He then gave me some money, saying that it was rent. When I checked, I found that he had only given me a single cent. My mouth twitched, but I still patiently explained the situation to him. “Uncle Ronald, the manor is haunted. No one can move inside. Why don’t I give you three thousand dollars so that you could book a hotel?” I certainly did not expect him to hang up on me without another word and tag everyone in the family group chat. [Guys, everyone will be going dutch for the trip this time. Apollo will be providing us free lodgings in a ten thousand square feet manor in the capital.] The family group chat went wild, and everyone praised me for being a good boy. I simply could not laugh along with them. That place was uninhabitable!

At school, I had a nickname. They called me "Mister Wait-Your-Turn." I waited for the sneakers my brother had grown tired of, the backpack my sister thought was ugly, and the phones my parents had already cracked the screens of. Even when it came to taking a shower, I had to wait until everyone else was done. A week ago, Mom had promised me, "On the day of your college entrance exam, you won't have to wait your turn for the shower." So when I finally stumbled into the bathroom, drenched in sweat and smelling awful, I thought my turn had finally come. I was halfway through working up a lather when someone started pounding on the door. "Come out. Let your brother go in." My eyes stung, and I couldn't tell whether it was from the steam or something else. I stood there without moving and gritted my teeth. "But you said I wouldn't have to wait on the day of my exam..." The pounding grew louder. Mom's voice came through the door, edged with impatience. "Let your brother go first. You can wait a little longer!" My hair was still covered in foam, and I'd barely managed to pull my sweat-soaked clothes back on when Mom dragged me out. My brother smiled at me. It was the kind of smile that seemed to say sorry, but there was far more triumph than apology in it. He said he wouldn't take long. His version of "not long" was eighty minutes. By then, my sweat-soaked clothes had dried completely, and the foam in my hair had dried up. After my brother came my sister. After Mom came Dad. The temperature on the water heater dropped from 113°F to 32°F. That was the moment I decided I was done waiting.

My father threatened to kill himself three times to control my life. The first time was when I was applying to college. He climbed onto the roof and demanded that I turn down offers from prestigious out-of-state universities and enroll at a local state college instead. I gave in. Even though my grades were good enough to earn a place at one of the country's top universities, I ended up staying in my hometown. The second time came after I graduated from college. I had landed a job with a company in a major city and was ready to finally build a life of my own. However, my father climbed onto the roof of the company's building and threatened to jump unless I quit and came home. Once again, I surrendered. I returned to my hometown and took a low-paying job at an auto repair shop where my father had pulled a few strings to get me hired. The third time, he climbed onto the roof again. This time, he forced me to marry a woman I had only met once, simply because he believed she would be 'the perfect wife'. I obeyed. Only after we were married did I discover the truth. She was already pregnant with another man's child, and I had been nothing more than the fool expected to clean up the mess. In the end, I could not endure it any longer. I stepped off the rooftop. … When I opened my eyes again, I saw my father gritting his teeth as he climbed onto the roof once more. "If you dare go to a college out of state, I'll jump right here!" I looked at him for a moment, then turned and walked away. "Go ahead," I said without looking back. "Just don't waste my time."

Dad made me report my whereabouts every day before I could get my allowance. Each check-in earned me one cent. "Son, I'm only worried you'll fall in with a bad crowd. Tell me wherever you go each day, and then I'll have peace of mind." I couldn't bear to make Dad worry, so every day I racked my brain inventing things to report, just to scrape together enough transfers for the cheapest veggie hand pie in the cafeteria. I went hungry day after day until I finally broke down. Then one day, I received allowance money from my mother, who had been dead for many years...

Over the holiday weekend, I brought in a specialist surgeon from out of town to operate on my grandson, Ben Xander. I personally paid the $20,000 surgical fee. But that night, my son Ryan called me in a panic. “Dad! Ben’s surgery is tomorrow! Why haven’t you paid the hospital yet?!” I didn’t have time to figure out what had gone wrong. I’d checked everything myself. I immediately transferred the money to the hospital again. But the next day, the hospital still claimed they hadn’t received the payment and said they were going to cancel Ben’s surgery. Panicking, I rushed to the hospital cashier. But after checking the system, the billing clerk on duty told me there was no record of any payment on Ben’s account. The surgeon I’d brought in immediately went cold. “If you don’t want the surgery, then cancel it now. Don’t waste my time.” Terrified that any further delay would put Ben in danger, I withdrew $20,000 in cash that very night and personally took it to the hospital cashier. But the next day, Ben still died without ever getting the surgery. Ryan held Ben’s body in his arms and sobbed. “Dad, did you really hate him that much?” That night, Ryan set the house on fire and burned us both alive. Even as I died, I couldn’t understand why the hospital had never received a single payment I’d made. My daughter-in-law, Lina York, died in the line of duty when Ben was one. After that, I helped Ryan raise him. They were both my whole world. How could I possibly have hated Ben? When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day Ben was admitted to the hospital.

While I was watching my own child, I came across an anonymous post online: [My son married way above his station. How can I get him to divorce her?] The poster claimed to be a mother. She said she hated her oldest son, describing him as lazy and selfish, and totally undeserving of such a great in-law family. Her plan was to force him to get a divorce—and then send her well-behaved, obedient younger son in his place as the new son-in-law. The comment section went crazy. [I've seen parents play favorites, but this is just twisted.] [Is the oldest adopted or something? Who schemes against their own flesh and blood like that?] [Are you marrying off a son or pimping one out? Just swapping them in to serve a rich family?] Then, in the middle of all the outrage, one comment surfaced: [Men hate being cheated on. Fake a few photos of your daughter-in-law with another guy and send them to him. Once he loses it, the marriage is as good as over.] The original poster replied immediately: [Thanks, girl! I'll try it right away.] The next second, my phone buzzed. A message from my mom popped up on the screen: [Jason, take a look at this. Do you think Emily is cheating?]

My older brother, Oliver Stewart, and I are twins, but he was born frail and sickly. My parents tell me, "Your mother lavished you with love while you were in the womb and fed you all the nutrients, so we'll now focus on giving Oliver love." And so, Oliver receives all their love since childhood. When we were young, my parents got Oliver the best education. When we become adults, my parents prepare a generous budget for his wedding and later help him raise his children too. One day, my parents—now old and frail—suddenly come looking for me. "We've gone above and beyond for Oliver, so we'll live with you from now on and make things up to you," they say to me. However, I now have a wife who loves me, as well as a cute daughter and a handsome son. I haven't needed my parents for a long time.

Before our wedding, my fiancée, Sarah Hargrave—a professor of medieval history—held a private ceremony in a secluded chapel in the countryside. But not with me. Under the glow of candlelight, she cradled Benjamin Wheeler—her first love, his face gaunt from the cancer consuming him—in her arms. Her smile was soft, almost reverent, as she murmured, "In the eyes of God, vows made before the altar are the only ones that matter. Even if the law says I belong to Daniel, my soul was never his." And so, to the faint echo of hymns and the scent of old incense, they drank from the same silver cup, exchanged rings, and stepped together into the dimly lit sacristy—their makeshift bridal chamber. I watched. Silent. Motionless. No outbursts, no demands for explanation. Just the quiet dialing of a clinic to undo the vasectomy I'd gotten for our future. From fifteen to thirty, I had loved Sarah for fifteen long years. But in all that time, there'd never been room for me. That space had always belonged to Benjamin, my stepbrother. So I let her go. Afterward, I joined a geological research team bound for the isolation of Antarctica—a land cut off from the world, quiet and clean. Before I left, I handed Sarah a divorce agreement…and a final gift to mark the end. I never anticipated that Sarah, who'd always met my devotion with frosty detachment, who'd never once glanced back as I walked away, would look ten years older overnight.

My younger brother, Ian Green, was caught for robbery, but my mother forced me to take the blame for him. I refused, so my mother took a knife and attempted suicide. She knew that I was filial and would not want her to suffer any harm, so I gave in. However, my mother had no idea that I also took responsibility for a murder he committed. After I was sentenced to death, she went insane looking for me.

My father raised me on one principle: fair exchange. If I wanted anything, I had to earn it myself. Fifty cents for washing the dishes. A dollar for mopping the floor. Five dollars for a perfect score on a test. To buy the pair of white sneakers I had been dreaming of, I spent three months collecting recyclables. In that house, I lived like a pieceworker, paid by the task. It was not until my senior year of high school that everything began to crack. I collapsed during morning study, my body worn down by years of malnutrition. The doctor said I needed better nutrition. My father stood by my hospital bed and started doing the math. "Three hundred for the hospital stay. Two hundred for medication. Chester, this all goes on your tab for the future." I turned my head and saw a boy in a school uniform in the next bed. His father was feeding him spoonfuls of chicken soup, his eyes red with worry. In that moment, the world I had known for 18 years fell apart. It turned out not every child had to earn their parents' love. After I was discharged, I went home and saw the pair of designer sneakers on my brother's feet; it was worth thousands. That was when I finally woke up. I tore up the family photo and, without hesitation, applied to the college farthest from home. Ten years later, my father called me in tears. My brother had taken all his retirement savings, sold the house, and run off with his girlfriend. He was left with nothing. No home. No one. I smiled and tossed him a rag. "Want a place to stay? Sure. It's 50 cents per window. Earn your own rent."

The summer after the college entrance exams, my parents promise to take me on a beach vacation. I start packing my suitcase one month in advance, including a pair of swim trunks, sunscreen, my camera, and a detailed travel itinerary that I stay up late every night preparing. The night before we leave, my younger brother, Oscar McCreery, suddenly announces that he wants to invite my childhood best friend, Celia Ruginis. Dad glances at the airline tickets and frowns. "We don't have enough rooms." My chest tightens. The next second, Mom snatches my passport out of my hand. "You can sit this one out, Nate. Your brother and Celia just made up. They need this." My older sister, Michelle McCreery, picks up my suitcase and sets it down beside Oscar. "Nate's already packed everything. You can just take this," she says to him. I turn to Celia. She once told me that we'd go to see the ocean together after my college entrance exams. But now, she just reaches for the suitcase. "Ozzy has always been terrified you'd steal everyone away. Just let him have his peace of mind this time." Oscar's eyes redden as his voice chokes with emotion. "Nathan, I just really want one family trip." A family trip. What a joke. Apparently, they're only a family without me around. Departure alerts flood my phone screen. There are only three hours left until boarding. I stand in the entryway, watching my suitcase disappear into the distance. That's when it hits me. For the past few years, I've been like excess baggage to them. They bring me along when I'm useful and leave me behind when I become inconvenient. The ocean breeze never even reaches me, but somehow, I have no desire to see the sea anymore.

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.

A real heir who boasted of having watched 500 short dramas about real and fake heirs came to live with my family. He developed a high fever that wouldn't break during a torrential downpour on his very first night with us, earning endless sympathy from our parents. "I know every trope in those short dramas like the back of my hand. How could a villainous side character like you, who does nothing but throw tantrums, possibly be a match for me?" he bragged. After that, he drove the butler who had cared for me since I was a child back to the countryside. He also turned my closest cousin against me, so much so that my cousin slapped me in front of everyone. He trampled all over my dignity and became the apple of my family's eye within a year. He was just as dismissive when I got engaged to the young heiress from Kingsbridge. "It'll be easy for me to make her hate you. All I need to do is pull one little trick. You'll see!" During the engagement party, he pulled me toward the stairs and started shrieking, intending to accuse me of pushing him down the stairs. However, the triumphant look on his face morphed into shock when he lunged forward. He blurted angrily, "Are you kidding me? Who has a staircase painted on the floor?"

After I started college, my mother announced that she would be giving me my living expenses in installments. "Hank, you're grown up now. To teach you how to manage your money, I've decided to give you your living expenses in installments." At first, I assumed she meant she would send my allowance once a month. At worst, maybe once a week. But on the day I checked in, she walked around the cafeteria, then transferred $6.80 to my bank account. I stared at her in confusion. "Mom, you sent the wrong amount." She shook her head with a smile. "Silly boy, that's your lunch money for today. I already picked out the cheapest meal for you. Just get the set lunch from that place. From now on, you can apply to me for the cost of each meal based on this amount." I was completely stunned. So when she said "installments," she did not mean monthly or even weekly. She meant every single meal. But by the third day, I was standing at the breakfast counter, struggling to come up with the $1.50 I needed for an egg. When I asked my mother for money, she refused. Instead, she simply said, "I paid for your brother's house in full yesterday. I don't have any extra cash on hand right now. Missing one meal won't kill you, will it?" The cafeteria lady looked at me with surprise and pity. That look burned a hole straight through my already fragile pride. That day, I held the egg the lady had given me and searched for a part-time job. Yet, when I no longer needed my mother, she was the one who panicked.