No Contact, Now Regret
By the fifth year since the return of the real heir, Danny, to the family, I had gotten used to the plain oatmeal on the table.
The second I asked for a bigger portion or more protein, Danny would express his envy toward me, his eyes downcast.
“Rhys sure enjoys such a hearty meal, unlike me. Growing up in an orphanage, I was hungry all the time. I wince at the sight of meat. I don’t deserve to eat.”
My parents shed tears of heartache while accusing me of rubbing it in Danny’s face.
Later, whenever I dressed up to go out, Danny would let out a wry smile.
“Rhys is so put together. That’s so not me. I grew up in the countryside, feeding livestock. Even all the designer clothes in the world can’t hide the fact that I was a farm hand.”
My fiancée, Kyra, would always be there to hold my hand. She said, “It’s not your fault, Rhys. Don’t put this on yourself.”
On the day of our engagement, Danny stared at the ring on my finger, his face brooding.
“You have occupied my place for twenty years. Your fiancée and the life of luxury were never meant to be yours. Don’t you ever wake up in the middle of the night, feeling the weight on your conscience?”
All eyes were on me, their silent judgment cutting into me.
With years of pent-up emotions breaking free, I pulled a punch.
My parents smashed the cake onto my head.
Kyra, on the other hand, took out a handkerchief to wipe away Danny’s tears.
That very night, I left a formal writing to cut all legal and personal ties with them.