Familial Bond Short Stories & Ruthless Regret Novels

The first year after my mother became a star, I learned that children give their fathers gifts on Father's Day. I didn't have a gift. I only had the letter Mom left behind for him. In my earliest memories, Mom was always on the balcony, talking to Dad on the phone. When I was three, she said, "Five million hush money? What is that supposed to buy? I spent it ages ago. I want cash now!" When I was four, she cried into the phone, "You're successful now. Just let a few crumbs slip through your fingers, treat it like spare change for a beggar!" When I was five, those phone calls stopped. Mom came back to us inside a wooden box. The lawyer told me that not a single penny of Mom's bank account had been touched. She left everything to me. But I didn't want the money. I just wanted my mom. This year, my teacher at school said we had to thank our fathers for Father's Day. I made the prettiest greeting card. Following the address written on the envelope, I walked all the way to a pair of grand iron gates. The security guard looked down at me and said, "Kid, Mr. Wright doesn't have any children. You clearly have the wrong address."

My mother always says, "Children are like little tree branches. If you don't prune them, they'll grow crooked." I'm the tree that's been pruned until nothing but the trunk remains. Ever since I was five, I've been told not to laugh when I'm happy because it means I'm getting carried away with myself. I'm not allowed to cry when someone bullies me because, as my mother says, "There is no smoke without fire." In other words, if I'm being bullied, I must have done something to deserve it. When I score 98 on a test, my parents only ask, "How did you lose those two points? Did you get complacent and make mistakes?" When relatives praise me for being well-behaved, my parents interrupt them in front of everyone and say, "She's just putting on an act. She's an absolute lazy bum at home. Don't let her fool you." Over time, I learn to bury every emotion deep inside and turn myself into the perfect creation my parents want me to be.

Mom always says that depression is nothing more than an illness born of idleness. People who are truly busy studying don't have time to be depressed. So, during my senior year of high school, I lie awake through countless nights, my hair falling out in clumps as I tremble over endless mock papers. Mom only slides another mock exam booklet in front of me. "Finish this booklet, and you won't have time to wallow in self-pity." At family gatherings, my relatives notice that I keep my head down and barely speak. They ask Mom, "Why has she gotten so quiet?" Mom's face darkens at once. "It's because she's guilty about something, duh. Go on. Tell everyone what you've done wrong this time." Later, even my homeroom teacher calls to say I don't seem like myself anymore. The moment Mom hangs up, she rounds on me. "So, now, you've started tattling to your teacher?" It isn't until I collapse before a mock exam that she finally listens to the doctor's advice and brings home a tiny orange tabby. Through the darkest days of my life, that cat becomes my only reason to keep going. Eventually, I make it into college. When I come home for the Independence Day holiday, I step through the door and call out instinctively for him. "Tangy?" No answering meow. Even the cat bed on the balcony is gone. "Stop calling," Mom said flatly. "I dumped him back where I found him the day you left." I stand there, frozen for several seconds before turning and darting outside, only to realize I have no idea where to go. The sounds around me become muffled, as though separated by a pane of glass, drifting farther and farther away. At that moment, my last connection to the world quietly snaps.

My father died of esophageal cancer. For the final two years of his life, he could barely swallow anything. By the time he passed, he was nothing but skin and bones. The first New Year after his death, he came to my mother in a dream. "I'm starving," he said. "I just want to taste the thick-cut steak you used to make." My mother believed it without question. That very day, she pan-seared a large platter of steak and carried it to his grave. The next morning, she suffered a sudden heart attack and died on the spot. Devastated, I handled my mother's funeral together with my husband. That same night, my husband dreamed of my father as well. "Chester," he said, "I haven't eaten in so long. I want your pâté, served with some strong liquor." When my husband woke up, he bought the finest liver pâté, opened a bottle of single-malt whiskey, and went straight to the grave. However, not long after returning home, he collapsed from acute liver failure. He was rushed to the ICU and died three days later. I was on the brink of collapse myself. I left my daughter in the care of a close friend while I tried to handle the endless wave of tragedy. That evening, my daughter never came home from school. I searched everywhere, and finally, on the road to the cemetery, I found her. She was clutching a bowl of spicy stew, several grilled sausages floating in the broth. "Mom," she said, "Grandpa and I used to eat this all the time. I dreamed he said he was hungry." I finally lost it. I knocked the bowl from her hands and carried her home. That night, my father appeared in my dream once more. "I suffered so much while alive," he said. "Have some pity on me. "New Year's is coming. I want to come home for a meal. Make sure you cook fish." I woke in terror. Holding my daughter, I sat before the three framed portraits for two full days without eating or drinking. On New Year's morning, I realized she was no longer breathing. Clutched tightly in her hand was a packet of spicy dried salmon. I could not believe it. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day my mother, her eyes red with worry, said she was going out to buy steak.

When I suffered from major depressive disorder, my academic performance plummeted. When my mother saw the big red 'F' on my exam paper, she was so furious that she tied my hands behind my back and threw me into the fish pond. “I scrimped and saved to send you to tutoring classes, and this is how you repay me? “Stop with this depression nonsense! You’re just being dramatic. You need a wake-up call. Stay in that pond until you come to your senses!” The weather was cold, and the water was freezing. I was never a good swimmer, so I could only beg for mercy. My mother, however, ignored my pleas. She forcibly dragged my father away to attend my cousin’s college send-off party. The waterweed wrapped around my feet and pulled me under. I decided to stop struggling. “Mom, I’m sorry I couldn’t be the perfect student you keep hoping for. Maybe you’ll be relieved to be rid of me.”

My father, Daniel Jacobson, teams up with the elders in my family to launch the Family app. Every child's behavior is converted into points, and those points determine who inherits the family's wealth. As the least favored daughter in the family, I am one of the first people forced to use it. "You earn one point for greeting your parents. Massaging shoulders or washing feet gives you ten points. Handing over your entire paycheck gets you 1,000 points. This is my original digital system for measuring good behavior." If I dare complain even once, or if I rank last on the scoreboard, Dad humiliates me relentlessly in the family group chat. He even forces me to kneel and wash the feet of whoever has the highest score as an apology. He looks at my hands that are red and scalded from the hot water and sighs. Then, his expression turns resolute again as he says, "I know it hurts now, but this is for your own good. A rough diamond has to be cut and polished before it can sparkle. I'm helping to smooth away your rough edges so your future will be smoother. "The points system is my greatest achievement. It's the deepest expression of a father's love." Today is Independence Day. It's also our family's annual scoreboard finalizing day. Dad invites all our relatives over. In front of everyone, he plans to announce that I, the child who ranks last, will be disowned. He wants everyone to see what happens to anyone who dares challenge his authority. "I'm doing this for the good of our family. Without rules, there can be no order. And without a strict upbringing, you won't build up the perfect character. One day, you'll understand my good intentions." But, Dad... I have already ended my own life by overdosing on some medicine. Right now, my lifeless body lies cold in the room upstairs, waiting for you to uncover it with your own hands.

In my previous life, my three sons told me they wanted to set up a Family Bond Fund for me. Each of them would deposit three thousand dollars every month. I cried with gratitude, truly believing that decades of sacrifice had finally paid off. One of them even said, "Mom, you've given us so much. It's our turn to take care of you now." However, eight years later, I was told I have uremia. That was when I discover that the bank card, which supposedly held the fund, couldn't even cover the dialysis deposit. Soon after, my eldest son video-called me. He said he wanted to buy a better apartment in a good school district. He was short of 150 thousand dollars for the down payment and asked if I could lend it to him first. My second son came to the hospital with his wife and daughter. He didn't ask about my condition at all. Instead, he kept showing off his daughter's piano competition trophy, hinting that he needed 50 thousand dollars to enroll her in a prestigious international piano program. My youngest son was even more straightforward. He said he had his eye on a limited-edition pair of sneakers and wanted me to pay 30 thousand dollars for them as a birthday gift. The moment they realized the bank account didn't have enough money, their faces fell. "We each put in three thousand dollars every month. Over eight years, that's at least eight hundred thousand dollars. Mom, are you hiding the money from us?" To force me to reveal my savings, they took turns pressuring me, switching between sweet talk and threats. They even told relatives that I had dementia and had been scammed out of my money. Unable to take it anymore, I yanked out my IV late one night and walked out of the hospital, only to be hit by a car, dying instantly. When I open my eyes again, I find myself back on the day of my hospital checkup.

Lenora Bennet is my first love. After we start dating, she's been nothing but caring toward me. But on the day of our wedding, my older brother, Gideon Sloane, calls her on the phone and tells her that he's sick and hospitalized. Lenora doesn't hesitate to ditch me at the altar. My mom wants me to be the bigger man and let Lenora take care of the ill Gideon. Meanwhile, my older sister, Hillary Sloane, chastises me for being selfish. She thinks I never let Gideon have his way. I don't understand at all. Gideon is the one who's stolen my life from me, but why is it that my family wants me to be gracious toward him? But after that, I've graciously decided that I don't want them in my life anymore. Surprisingly enough, they keep begging for my forgiveness.

Three years after my parents’ divorce, I ran into my sister while I was performing on the streets. She stepped down from a city management vehicle and froze for a moment when she realized the person working so hard to breathe fire was me. She walked toward me, her steps slightly uneasy. “You’re affecting public order. You’re coming with us.” After I finished giving my statement, my mother arrived too. She paid my fine for me, then handed me a bank card. “Stop embarrassing yourself out here. Take this money and find a school to attend again.” I did not move. When I finally spoke, my voice was hoarse and unpleasant. “Where were you when Dad and I needed you the most?” My harsh words made my sister frown. “Everyone had their own struggles back then. You don’t have to blame Mom for everything.” My mother’s expression darkened as she began lecturing me, “Why are you just as stubborn as your father? If you had come with me, would you have ended up begging on the streets? Tell your father that as long as he admits he was wrong, I’ll acknowledge you as my son again.” I looked at them, but the words were stuck in my throat. Did they really not know that my father had already died three years ago?

Among the three children in my wealthy family, I was the biggest embarrassment by a long shot. My eldest sister, Eliana Spencer, was busy preparing to inherit the family business, while my younger brother, Alistair Spencer, the fake heir, was busy attending parties. As for me, the real heir who had been brought back from the mountains, I was sent to the old family residence to care for my paralyzed grandfather. In my first month caring for him, the family transferred $150 as my nursing allowance. I did not think anything of it. After all, Eliana knew how to make money for the family, and Alistair knew how to keep our parents happy. All I knew how to do was grow vegetables and raise chickens. $150 was already a generous amount. That was more than good enough. Folks from the mountains had our own ways of getting by. If I could not afford fine vegetables, I would grow my own in the yard. If I could not afford a caregiver, I would bathe Grandpa, turn him over, and get up at regular intervals throughout the night to give him his medication. When I needed to replace his old oxygen concentrator, I spent my days digging up medicinal herbs and my nights weaving wicker baskets for the townspeople. After more than half a year of saving every penny, I had finally scraped together $1,000. The day the new machine arrived at the old residence, my father and mother happened to bring Eliana and Alistair over to visit Grandpa. Eliana brought a top medical team. Alistair presented Grandpa with a wild Phoenix Root worth a million dollars. Then there was me, looking like I had just crawled out of a dirt pit, carrying a bundle of wild vegetables in one hand and an $1,000 domestically-made oxygen concentrator in the other. Alistair glanced at the machine in my arms and put on an exaggerated look of surprise. “We give you $100,000 a month for Grandpa’s care, and this is the cheap piece of junk you bought him?” Eliana’s face darkened. She demanded furiously, “That’s $900,000 over nine months! Where did you spend Grandpa’s life-saving money?" I stared at her blankly, swallowed hard, and wiped the dust from my face. We mountain folk were honest to a fault. If I was truly given that much money, Grandpa would be living in luxury right now. Which brought me to the real question: I had not even caught a whiff of that money, so whose pockets had that $900,000 ended up lining?

Three days after the SAT scores were released, I came across a post asking for advice. [Both my older and younger sons are going to Northbridge for college. How should I split their living expenses so it's fair?] The comments were almost unanimous. [Why is this even a question? They're both your kids. Give them the same amount. That's the fairest way to do things.] I was about to scroll past when the newest top comment caught my eye. The profile picture belonged to my sister. [Don't judge when you don't know the whole story.] [I'm their older sister, so let me be honest. You can't raise two boys the same way.] [The older one is pretty average-looking, and he's awkward and quiet. Even if you gave him money, he wouldn't know what to spend it on. Meanwhile, the younger one is outgoing and handsome, with great style. One pair of his limited-edition shoes costs over $2,000.] [If you ask me, the older one should get $800, and the younger one should get $8,000. Each child should get the amount they need.] Beneath her comment was a reply from my childhood best friend, Whitney Jones. [Couldn't have said it better myself!] [Besides, we'll all be in Northbridge anyway. We can keep your younger brother company, so your mom won't have to worry about him back home.] Staring at the screen, I suddenly laughed until tears blurred my vision. When we were kids, we would play hide-and-seek. All of them would sneak off together, hand in hand, leaving me alone in the dark attic, covering my eyes and counting. Back then, I honestly believed that if I searched hard enough, I would eventually find them and become part of their little world. However, every time I opened my eyes, they had already slipped away with my younger brother, leaving to buy ice cream without me. It turned out nothing had changed since then. They were still walking side by side toward the bright lights of Northbridge, while I remained nothing more than an afterthought, someone brought along just for the sake of the picture. I deleted every university in Northbridge from my list and replaced them with schools in the far south, more than a thousand miles from home. I was done playing the loyal supporting character in someone else's fairy tale. Their game could go on without me.

My mother had hated my guts for 18 years. On the day I died, they had gone on a vacation and were happily snapping photos. The cops called her, but she got upset because the news marred her mood. So, she retorted, "He'd never take his own life. I bet this is just another one of his attempts to get my money. He can die for all I care. I'm not interested." She had no idea that I was already dead.

The night of the Blood Moon Hunt, our pack was ambushed. We were being slaughtered. Yet my mate, Alpha Ridley, chose to save his first love, Yolia, without a second thought. He told me to stay behind and hold the line, claiming it was my duty as Luna. He claimed his precious Yolia was a vital warrior who needed to be protected. Even my own son, Leo, stood by Yolia's side to defend her. I was captured by the rival pack, tortured with a silver dagger until I was on the brink of death. Just as I was about to give up, a voice echoed in my mind. "The blood of the Luna Prime flows through your veins. You have three days. Let your life end before the eyes of your fated mate, or the one you love most, and you will be reborn." A power surged inside me, calling to me. I ran toward that glorious death, embracing it. But as I drew my last breath, I saw Ridley and our son, Leo, fall to their knees, howling my name, begging for a return I would never grant them.

After my older sister Rachelle came home from dialysis, the atmosphere at home was suffocating. She curled up on the couch, thin as a rail. She was nagging me hard and telling me not to tire myself out too much at work. Dad was by the door smoking. To get money to treat Rachelle’s condition, he had sold our old house and land. Dirty and muddied, my fiance, who had always viewed Rachelle as a sister of his own, brought home his week’s salary. They all lamented how unfair life was to already poor and suffering people who had to suffer even more. I looked at myself in the mirror with my bleeding nose and flushed away the report with my acute leukemia diagnosis. During dinner, Dad suddenly said, “Ryleigh, Rachelle needs a kidney. You’re healthy and young. You might be a match.” I looked at Rachelle’s pleading eyes and coldly put my cutlery down. “I won’t do it. I’ll be a cripple with one less kidney. How am I supposed to find someone to marry then?” Dad slapped me hard, even as my fiance called me ungrateful. I slammed the door shut as I left. I looked for the nearest room to the hospital to rent so that I could wait it out until I died. The room I found was only five blocks away from the organ donation center.

My world is simple. Everything has a price. A goodnight hug from Mom costs one dollar. Three minutes of Dad spinning me around in his arms costs five dollars. I keep track of it all in my head, then count out the coins from my bear purse to pay them. Dad calls it "splitting bills". He says it teaches me to be independent and never leech off others. I don't have any friends because I have no idea how to pay for friendship. I'm not scared of monsters in the dark. I'm scared of Dad looking over the bill and saying, "Kevin, you overspent on love today." So, I save every penny I can, hoping to buy more and more love. Then comes the day a stranger offers me a candy wrapped in shiny paper. Out of habit, I ask him how much it is. He says it's free, and I just need to walk with him for a while.

When the fire broke out, Mom instinctively scooped up my younger sister, who had asthma, and ran for the exit. Dad shielded them as they rushed toward the stairs. A cabinet toppled over and crushed my leg. The pain was so intense that I could not even scream. Mom glanced back at me, but all she shouted was, "Suzanna, keep up!" It was the phrase she had said to me more than any other throughout my childhood. At the amusement park, when my shoelaces came undone, Mom told me to keep up. By the time I looked up, she was already far ahead with my sister in her arms. On rainy days, she told me to keep up too. She put a raincoat on my sister while I pedaled my bicycle behind them, struggling to catch up. "Your sister is sick. We have to take extra care of her," she always said. I had always been a good girl. When I fell, I did not cry. When I was hungry, I did not complain. Even now, as the flames threatened to swallow everything around me, I lay in the thick smoke and watched their retreating figures disappear into the distance. All I could manage was a soft whisper. "I'm sorry, Mom. "This time, I don't think I can keep up."

During the SAT exam, My sister and I both had an emergency at the same time. Overwhelmed by stress, I suffered a heart attack and was on the brink of death. Yet my mom, who was working as an invigilator that day, rushed to tend to my sister—who only had a stomach ache—without a second thought. I begged her to save me. But she kicked me away fiercely. “Can’t you pick the right time to put on a show for attention? If you ruin your sister’s grades, I’ll beat you to death, you beast!” Later, I failed to respond to resuscitation and died in the hospital. Mom collapsed overnight.

My sister, Anna Hawkins, and I are twins, but I'm slightly heavier than her when we were born. Anna has always been weak and sickly since young, whereas I'm always active and healthy. When Anna was four years old, she was diagnosed with leukemia. Mom blamed me for stealing Anna's nutrients when I got born, so I needed to return the nutrients to her. When I got my blood extracted for the first time, a thick syringe was used on me. I was so scared when I saw it. Mom told me not to be scared. She gave me a magical pen, stating that whatever wish I wrote down with the pen would come true. I wrote, "It won't hurt." When the syringe was plunged into my arm again, Mom bought me a sweet lollipop. The pain never struck me again afterward. When I was five years old, I drew a strawberry cake on the paper while getting 1000cc blood withdrawn from me. That week, Anna could sit up in bed and play on her own. When I turned seven years old, I wrote down my wish that I'd like to go on a vacation. The next day, I was sent into the operating theater for the doctors to collect my hematopoietic cells. For the first time ever, Anna's cheeks became rosy. When I was eight years old, I wrote that I wanted to become the top student of my grade. But a day before my exams, my bone marrow was drawn from me. Anna finally got discharged by the hospital. She got to wear new dresses that I never got to wear. In the year I turn nine years old, my body is heavily depleted. With a trembling hand, I can only write down a line in messy handwriting. "I hope… that I won't become Mom's daughter in my next life."

Fire suddenly breaks out at the hotel where we're hosting our wedding. My fiance, Alan Godwin, doesn't hesitate to pick up Brenda Larkin, my cousin who has already collapsed out of fright, and rush out to safety. Meanwhile, my parents and older brother hurriedly cart away the wedding gift Brenda has made. They don't want her to get sad if the gift is damaged in any way. As for me, I've twisted my ankle, making it inconvenient for me to escape from the hotel. Everyone has already forgotten all about me, so I end up getting severe burns all over my body. When they look at the bandages wrapped around my body, they shoot me disgusted looks. "Why are you such a jinx? How is it possible for a fire to break out at your own wedding? Thanks to you, Brenda has fainted out of shock!" "Well, it's not like you're suited for any public appearances when you look like this, anyway. Brenda's figure is similar to yours. Why don't you let her replace you in the wedding?" I just nod calmly and agree to the suggestion. After that, I sort out the details of getting dispatched overseas for my job with my boss. One month later, I board my flight on the day Brenda is set to wed Alan. I no longer want Alan, who's blind to the truth, and my family, who are nothing but biased toward Brenda. But why is it that they are filled with regret after I leave them?

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