Goodstorie

My dad said, “Starting today, all the assets, including the company, the shares, and the real estate will be handed over to Matteo.” That was his announcement to the entire family and relatives during last year’s Easter gathering. Even though I had spent $80,000 to save our family’s company before that, they didn’t choose me just because I’m a veterinarian, a profession once dismissed as spending all day caring for filthy animals. And then a year later, when my dad was hospitalized and needed $20,000 for treatment, it was my mom who came to me begging for help. At that moment, I said, “Ask the heir.” Now follow my story and tell me, was I wrong to refuse to help the very man who gave me life?

Hi everyone, my name is Adam. I’m 30 years old, living in New York, and run a pet care service chain. The job is stable, the income is decent. I have my own house, a car, and a small office filled with sunlight where I often work late into the evening. From the outside, people think I’m lucky. A proud, loving family is surely behind me. But there’s no family. Or if there is, it’s the one I walked away from exactly a year ago. I still remember that day clearly, standing in the middle of a crowded family gathering, looking straight into my parents’ eyes and saying, “I don’t belong here anymore.” It wasn’t an easy decision. But when you’ve been pushed to the edge of silence, to the edge of disappointment, you’re forced to choose. Either keep enduring it or step away from that cycle for good. Today, I’m telling this story, not to blame anyone, not to justify myself, but to remind myself. Sometimes to truly live, you must be willing to lose the very thing you once thought was impossible to let go.

The Easter Announcement: A Legacy Denied

One Sunday afternoon at the end of April last year, right on Easter, I walked away from my family firmly and without regret. The sun was out that day, just enough to dry the patches of rain left on the ground after a string of chilly spring showers. I’d left Manhattan early, driving through streets dotted with people heading to church, quietly happy that after so long, our whole family was finally getting together again. For me, being on time has always meant showing up early, at least 15 minutes early. And this time was no different. When I arrived, the house was already buzzing with chatter and laughter. Compared to past holidays, this one was much more crowded. Relatives from near and far, many of whom I recognized by face but couldn’t recall by name. Mom said today was special. That Dad had something important to announce. I didn’t ask what it was. I placed the chocolate mousse cake on the kitchen counter, the kind Mom used to love from a little hidden bakery in a Brooklyn alleyway. In recent years, I’d always brought something home. A bottle of red wine, a box of artisan pastries, or just a bouquet of her favorite flowers. Those small gifts didn’t change the distance between us, but deep down, I thought maybe they preserved a sliver of the son I was still trying to be.

20 minutes later, the party began like any other. Glasses clinking, the scent of grilled meat and roasted potatoes filling the house, familiar conversations about real estate prices, stock fluctuations, and which schools the kids were going to. I sat at the corner of the table, eating quietly and listening. I didn’t join in. I didn’t feel the need to. Then about 30 minutes after everyone had settled in, my dad stood up, raised his glass of wine, and spoke in that booming voice of his, the one he only used when he was about to make a big announcement. “Everyone, please quiet down. We have something to share.” Immediately, the room fell silent. My dad continued, “Our family has come to a decision. Starting today, all the assets, including the company, the shares, and the real estate, will be handed over to Matteo.” At that moment, the room went completely still. I could feel my heart slow down by half a beat. Then, almost on cue. The applause was loud, rushed, and enthusiastic like everyone had known. Right after, my mom spoke, her eyes shining like she had just fulfilled her life’s purpose. “Matteo’s been working at the family company for 5 years now, and he’ll be the one to carry on the legacy to take it to the next level.” After their announcement, I just sat there staring at the glass of water before me. The chill from the glass pressed into my fingertips, but it couldn’t numb the ache spreading through my chest. Applause rose around me, wave after wave, like hammer blows pounding into the chair I was sitting on. No one asked what I thought. No one looked my way. No one said, “What about Adam?” I was there, but no one saw me. I was there, but in their eyes, I’d been written out of the story long ago. I knew they favored Matteo, but I didn’t think it would be this obvious.

The Veterinarian vs. The Golden Boy

Matteo is my younger brother, two years younger than me. Growing up, we weren’t inseparable, but we never had any real conflict. In our parents’ eyes, I used to believe we were equals because my childhood was defined by one clear memory: Fairness. Back then, everything was split down the middle. Two birthday cakes, two identical bags of candy, two nearly matching bikes, just different colors. Even when we got into trouble, the punishment was always the same. No one got off easier than the other. I still remember when we both scribbled on the wall, and Mom made us kneel and scrub every pencil mark off. No favoritism. I grew up believing I came from a fair family until I turned 18. It was an early fall evening. Sitting in the living room, I told Dad I wanted to study veterinary medicine, Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. I researched, picked a school, and even secured a partial scholarship. All I needed was a little help financially to get started. I thought he’d ask me about my plans, maybe offer some advice, or at the very least, give me a nod of encouragement. Instead, he just sat there, arms crossed, eyes sharp and cold, like I had just announced something shameful. “I’m not putting a single dime into that career. If that’s what you want, you’re on your own.” That one sentence, so simple, so final, completely severed the thread that had once tied me to any hopes I had about what family was supposed to mean. I didn’t understand it back then. I didn’t get why a career choice could make me feel like a traitor. Took me years to realize what I chose didn’t fit into the plan they had for me. And from that moment on, I was no longer the pride of the family. That role slowly shifted to Matteo.

Ever since the day I told my dad I wanted to study veterinary medicine, everything slowly began to shift. Not through harsh words or direct disapproval, but through quiet, gradual distance. Over time, I learned to stay silent. I thought maybe that was the price you paid for choosing a different path than the one laid out for you. But even in that growing distance, I never once turned my back on them when they needed me. I still sent Mom flowers on Mother’s Day. I still chipped in when Dad needed a new AC in the middle of summer. I still showed up when the company hit rough patches. I never kept score. And maybe that’s why the betrayal cut so deep because it came from the one person I believed would never treat me like an outsider: My father.

The $80,000 Loan: A Fool’s Belief in “Family”

I’ll never forget what he said to me a year ago when he called late one night. His voice was low, a little unsteady, like he’d wrestled with himself before finally hitting call. That night, the company was in crisis. A major contract had fallen through at the last minute, and they needed $80,000 to avoid a total collapse. I brought up the idea of making a formal statement to the family or at the very least drawing up a document acknowledging my contribution to the company, but he shut that down right away. He tried to reassure me with just one sentence. “When your mother and I are gone, you’ll still have a share of the company. This is family business after all.” At that moment, I didn’t ask for anything more. The very next morning, I wired $80,000 to the company account. No contract, no written agreement, just my father’s words, spoken quietly after a long pause on the phone. “When your mother and I are gone, you’ll still have a share of the company. This is family business.” And I nodded. I stupidly believed in that one word he emphasized: Family. But now, looking back, maybe I should have asked for a signed agreement. Maybe I should have known. For some people, family only matters when they’re in need.

The Public Confrontation

Back at that Easter gathering exactly one year ago, right after my father stood up and declared that Matteo would inherit everything, I didn’t stay quiet as I had so many times before. I spoke up clearly, firmly, “What about me?” The question rang out just as the wine glasses were still midair. The room fell into an uneasy silence. A few people turned to look at me as if they were only realizing I’d been there the whole time. I could hear the hushed whispers ripple across the room. “That’s right. What about Adam? He’s Matteo’s older brother.” As the tension spread like a thin fog, my mother stepped in. Her voice was gentle, the way it always was, like she was trying to make something hurtful sound reasonable. “Adam, you already have a career, a house, a car. But Matteo, he has nothing.” The moment she finished, I looked her straight in the eyes. My voice was low, but every word landed heavy, like stones dropping. “That career, I built it with my own hands. I left home at 18 and figured everything out on my own. I didn’t take a single cent from you or Dad. I earned a scholarship, worked through school, and saved every dollar. Meanwhile, you paid for all of Matteo’s tuition and covered all his expenses. And now you hand everything over to him like I never existed. I’m your son, too.” Before anyone could respond, Matteo cut in, his voice full of smugness. “Mom’s right. You shouldn’t be competing with me.” I snapped around, pointing straight at him. “Shut your mouth. You don’t even have the right to speak.” The room went dead silent. And then my dad slammed his hand on the table, his voice sharp, each word like a slap. “That’s enough, Adam. Matteo followed the path we laid out. You didn’t. If you hadn’t chosen those filthy animals, this company would have been yours.” I froze for a moment. Then I answered him, “What the hell are you talking about? That’s an insult. Do you even realize that it was thanks to those so-called filthy animals that I made the $80,000 that saved your company? And if you look down on my job that much, pay me back right now.” As soon as I said it, he jumped up, face red, eyes blazing, and started yelling. “I’m not giving you a damn cent. I brought you into this world, raised you, fed you, educated you. Do you know how much I spent on you, and now you’re out there cleaning up after dogs and cats? You’re an embarrassment.” The second he finished that sentence, I knew I was done. After nearly 30 seconds of silence, I spoke again, steadying my voice so it wouldn’t shake. “If that’s how you feel, then we have nothing to do with each other from now on. Don’t come looking for me again.” I turned to leave, but then paused, not to apologize, but to say one last thing. “Dad, I never asked to be born. So, please don’t throw your so-called sacrifices in my face to guilt me into following your path, and don’t use them as leverage to force me into carrying the weight of this family.” And with that, I walked out, head held high, and I never looked back.

Building My Own Success

I got back to my apartment just before 9 that night. The first thing I did was head straight to the bathroom. I turned the water on full blast. I needed it to wash away everything I just carried home from that dinner: The resentment, the injustice, the hurt. It was nearly 20 minutes before I stepped out. My body felt lighter, my mind a little less heavy, but deep down that quiet sense of emptiness lingered. I made a hot black coffee, hoping it would help me stay clear-headed. That night, as I sat silently by the window, I found myself drifting back to the year I turned 18. The day I left home, carrying nothing but an old suitcase, a few changes of clothes, and the little money I’d saved myself. Even though I was already working part-time, I struggled to cover basic living expenses. But not once in those years did my parents ever ask if I was okay. I remember living in a tiny studio apartment for the first two years after graduation. Every month I cut corners on everything to keep up with student loan payments.

Whisker and Paw: A New Family

Then in my third year, something unexpected happened. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon. I didn’t have a shift that day and no plans. A random thought popped into my head, almost like a joke. Why not try filming a video on how to take care of pets? So, I did. I stacked books and shoe boxes to make a makeshift tripod, propped up my phone, and spoke like I was chatting with a friend. When I finished, I uploaded the video to Facebook and YouTube. I wasn’t expecting much and just doing it for fun. Suppose someone stumbled across it, great. If not, no big deal. But within 2 days, it went viral. Nearly 3 million views in under 48 hours across platforms. Couldn’t believe it. I kept refreshing the page, thinking maybe it was a glitch. Then the comments and messages started pouring in and that’s when it hit me. People needed what I had to share, so I made more videos. First, I thought I was sharing knowledge. But a month later, I received my first $2,000 from ads and sponsorships. I remember staring at that number on my screen for a long time, stunned, a little anxious, wondering if I was dreaming. But the number kept growing. Nine months later, my YouTube channel hit 1 million subscribers. By the end of the first year, I had over 2 million followers across all platforms. That’s when the pet care brands started reaching out. They wanted to collaborate, sponsor videos, and send me products to review. And I realized this wasn’t just a hobby anymore. It was something real, something bigger. And finally, with the support of my audience, I opened my first pet care store. I named the store Whisker and Paw. A place not just for caring for cats and dogs, but for spreading kindness and love. The things I longed for as a child, but never fully felt for my family.

The first location was a bigger success than I ever imagined. Maybe it was thanks to the community that had supported me since my first videos. Or maybe it was because people could sense the sincerity in how I treated every customer, both the two-legged and the four-legged ones. A few months in, I had to hire more staff, extend our hours, and start looking for a second location. A year later, the second branch opened. And now, four years down the road, Whisker and Paw has grown to seven locations across the city’s boroughs with over 30 full-time and part-time employees. Some of them have been with me since day one. Some just joined a few months ago, but every single one is part of the family I built with my own hands. Even though everything has gone well, I’ve never bragged about it, especially not to my family and not to my relatives. I learned that lesson from a mentor in the industry, a man who gave me valuable advice even when I was still a nobody. I still remember what he said to me. “Never flaunt your success, not even to your parents.” Back then, I didn’t get it. I thought, why not share it with your own family? Shouldn’t they be the first to know if you’ve done something good? But the older I got, the more I understood. Everyone carries a bit of envy, some more than others. And when you talk about your success, people don’t just admire you. They see you as an open wallet. They’ll ask to borrow money, pitch business ideas, or at the very least expect you to help out because “we’re family.” And when you say no, admiration turns to bitterness, resentment. So, I chose to stay quiet. I still went home for the holidays. I still brought desserts, gifts, and sometimes a nice bottle of wine or a thoughtful present for Mom. But I never talked about revenue, never mentioned staff, never shared upcoming projects. To them, I was just Adam, the guy who takes care of pets. And honestly, I preferred it that way.

The Reckoning

About 6 months after that Easter dinner, I didn’t text, call, or go home. And my parents, Charles and Margaret Walker, kept just as silent. No check-in texts, no surprise phone calls. It was as if my disappearance had been anticipated all along. I didn’t feel sad. On the contrary, in those early days, waking up without having to check for a message from Mom felt like a weight lifted off my chest. Every evening, I could sit alone in my quiet apartment, sip a late night coffee, and focus on work without being pulled back into that vague sense of duty to the family. For the first time in years, I could finally name the feeling. It was freedom.

The Call for Help: $120,000

But then, one weekend morning about 6 months ago, just as I was about to pour myself a second cup of coffee, my phone rang. It was Dad. When his name popped up on the screen, I froze in the middle of the kitchen. The coffee cup is still half full in my hand. My thumb hovered over the decline button, but I didn’t press it. For a split second, a strange thought crossed my mind. What if they’ve changed? What if they’re calling to apologize? I don’t know why I let myself think that. Maybe part of me still wanted to believe they’d reflected on everything after that night. Deep down, maybe I still held on to a sliver of hope, just a small one. After a few rings, I answered. My father’s voice came through immediately. No small talk, no hesitation. He said, “Adam, the company’s in serious trouble. Matteo signed the wrong contract. Now we’re looking at $120,000 in damages. Can you help us for the family’s reputation? For the Walker name?” And without even thinking, I replied, “$80,000 was more than enough. Dad, if you want my help, start by paying that back.” Silence on the other end. I could tell he was angry or disappointed. But I didn’t care anymore. Before he could say anything else, I added, “And if the only thing you’re trying to save is the family name, let me remind you that name never once stood up for me.” I hung up and let them figure out the $120,000 mess on their own.

The Doorstep Confrontation

After turning my father down so firmly on the phone the day before, I thought they’d finally leave me alone. But I underestimated them. The next morning, just past 7:00 a.m., my doorbell started ringing loud, fast, insistent. There was nothing polite or hesitant about it. It was pushy, demanding. It was like someone was trying to force me out. When I opened the door, I froze for a second. Standing there were my parents and Matteo. I didn’t invite them in. I stood at the threshold, blocking the entrance completely. A clear signal. This is no longer our shared space. I already knew why they were there. So, I said it straight out, my voice firm but calm. “If you’re here about the $120,000, turn around. I’m not helping.” My tone wasn’t loud, but each word echoed sharp and clear down the quiet hallway. As soon as I finished, my mom took a small step back. Her eyes were red. Not quite from crying, but from something else. Maybe stress, maybe disappointment, maybe anger with nowhere to go. She spoke next, her voice tight, but trying to sound gentle. “Adam, you have a whole chain of pet care stores. $120,000 isn’t that much to you. I’m begging you. If you don’t help, the company will collapse. Our family will lose everything.” Then Matteo stepped forward half a step. He didn’t meet my eyes. His voice was softer than I’d ever heard it. “Adam, please. Just this once. I know I messed up. I know I ruined everything.” I said nothing. I let them speak. I didn’t interrupt. I didn’t shake my head. I just looked at them, hands still gripping the door frame, like if I let go, the boundaries I’d built would all fall apart again. Then, after a few moments of silence, I answered slowly, clearly. “Leave before I call the police.” My father’s face hardened instantly. My mother opened her mouth like she wanted to say something more, but I didn’t give her the chance. I said it again, louder this time so there would be no room for misunderstanding. “I have nothing to do with any of you anymore. You all have to live with the consequences of your choices, your favoritism, your silence. Matteo too, if the company collapses, that’s not a tragedy. It’s a consequence, and I’m not responsible for saving anyone.” Then I shut the door. Firm. Final.

The Lawsuit and Its Consequences

After they left, I returned to my now cold cup of coffee, but my mind had already started spiraling in a different direction. A question had slipped quietly into my thoughts. Barely a whisper, but sharp enough to stop me midsip. How did they know I have seven stores? I never told them. I never once mentioned it. I always kept my distance, even in the rare family gatherings before everything fell apart. I never shared details about my business scale or how much I was earning. They didn’t use Instagram and they weren’t following me on LinkedIn. Then it hit me: YouTube. The one thing I couldn’t hide, the place where I still posted videos about pet care, gentle, thoughtful clips where I talked about my work and my love for animals. Maybe someone they knew sent them a link, or maybe they found it on their own. Right then, a chill ran down my spine. Not because I was afraid they’d found out, but because I knew exactly the kind of people they became when they saw something they could exploit. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled out my phone, opened the message screen, and typed each word with absolute clarity. Each sentence hit like a warning knock at the door. “If you, Mom or Matteo, take any action that damages my reputation or business, I will sue. I’m serious.” I hit send. And in that moment, I hoped, truly hoped, they wouldn’t cross the line.

Even though I had sent an obvious warning message, Matteo still wouldn’t stop. The next day, he posted on Facebook, Reddit, and Instagram. I didn’t read it immediately, but then people I knew started sending it to me. Employees at the company began pressing me with questions, and the media started calling. I didn’t need to read every word to know exactly what he had written. His post claimed that I abandoned my family when they were on the verge of bankruptcy, that I turned my parents away without a second thought when they came to me for help. He even said I kicked them out of my house like they were strangers. And of course, he highlighted that this wasn’t the first time I had mistreated my flesh and blood. The story was so twisted, I couldn’t even recognize what parts were genuine anymore. But the truth doesn’t matter to people. All they want is a ready-made narrative full of emotion, a cold, wealthy villain, a struggling, innocent family, and an ending bitter enough for them to share, gossip about, and judge. By the end of that same morning, right after Matteo posted, I started losing clients. Grooming appointments were canceled one after another. My company’s social media pages were flooded. Some people sent hate messages straight to my inbox, and I was facing the very real risk of having to shut down my stores if I didn’t act.

That afternoon, I went to see Brian, the attorney, who was also an old friend. He helped me draft the lease agreement for my first store location. I didn’t call ahead. I just sent him one line. “I need to see you urgently.” Brian fit me in between two meetings. His office looked the same as when I was there, neat, quiet, and bathed in natural light from a wall of windows. He sat behind his desk, fingers interlocked, as I walked him through everything from start to finish. I handed him printed copies of the comments, revenue reports showing the impact, and a screenshot of Matteo’s original post, evidence I had saved. When I finished, he looked up, folded his arms, and gave me a half smile I couldn’t quite read. Then Brian spoke. “You just hit the jackpot, Adam.” I frowned. A few seconds passed before I asked quietly. “What do you mean?” Brian gave a slight chuckle and tilted his head toward me. “I mean, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Everything Matteo’s done, the post, the damage to your business and your personal and brand reputation adds to a solid civil case. And with the amount of evidence you’ve got, I can tell you right now, you’re looking at a pretty big payout.” It felt like something heavy had been lifted off my chest right then. Brian went on calm and steady. “Matteo is going to be held accountable for what he’s done legally and financially, and if the court rules fairly, the compensation could exceed everything you’ve lost.” I didn’t say anything else. I just nodded. Then I opened my bag, took out the documents I had prepared, placed them on the table, and said to Brian, “Draft the case. I’m giving you full authority to handle this.” At that moment, Brian smiled and held out his hand, not for congratulations, but for a handshake that marked a no-nonsense beginning. That very afternoon, I signed the power of attorney. This time, there was no warning text, no waiting for someone to change, no room for emotion. I was going to sue. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel guilty about it.

A few weeks after I signed the power of attorney, Matteo’s lawyer contacted Brian. They wanted to talk about settlement. I wasn’t surprised. People like them only come to the table when standing on the edge. Only when they’ve lost control do they suddenly pretend they want to settle things peacefully. And just as I expected, Brian called me into his office that Thursday afternoon. He placed a thin file in front of me and said casually, “Your family wants to propose a deal.” I looked at him saying nothing. Brian opened the file, slid the top page toward me, and continued, “They want to sell the company. In exchange, they’d like to stay on as internal advisers.” I sat there scanning the lines. Nothing about it was technically wrong. Nothing lacked logic except for one thing: I didn’t want any part of them anymore. I looked up, my voice calm, not bitter, just the clarity of someone who was done making meaningless compromises. “Tell them I’m not interested.” Brian gave a slight nod. He didn’t ask why. I stood, grabbed my coat, then turned to him before walking out. “I’m not buying the company. I’m not hiring relatives as consultants.” I paused for a beat, then added to seal it all off. “I’m not saving a family just to keep being treated like a walking wallet.”

3 months after Matteo posted the false information, the trial officially began. The Manhattan District Courthouse wasn’t far from my apartment, but I left earlier that morning. I needed a few quiet minutes in the car to breathe, steady myself, and remember that I was doing the right thing, not out of anger, but for justice. When I stepped into the courtroom, Matteo was already there. He sat beside his lawyer, face tense, trying to keep his composure. The arrogance was gone. So was that dismissive look he threw at me whenever we argued back home. That day, he looked down more than he looked ahead. Me, I kept my eyes forward. Brian was fully prepared. He laid out every category of loss. Canceled contracts, stores forced to close, revenue declines, and compensation paid to employees. Receipts, documents, and official stamps back every claim. Nothing exaggerated. Matteo’s side tried to spin it, saying the post was personal, that they didn’t expect the consequences to be this severe, that people misunderstood. But no one in that courtroom believed that nearly 30,000 shares resulted from a misunderstanding. I didn’t lift my head when the judge read the summary judgment. I didn’t need to see Matteo. I just listened as the words rang out. Steady, emotionless. “The defendant, Matteo Walker, is found liable for significant commercial damages and is ordered to compensate the plaintiff, Adam Walker, for direct losses totaling $248,000.” A moment of silence followed the ruling. I stood up. I didn’t look at Matteo. I didn’t search for a reaction from my parents. They weren’t there. I walked out of that courtroom as I’d finally placed the period at the end of a long, offbeat sentence that didn’t need to be written anymore. This time, I won. Not because I wanted to teach someone a lesson, but because I finally stopped letting things slide. After the lawsuit, I heard Matteo had to sell the company, the one they once called the family legacy, and even his own house, just to come up with the $248,000 the court ordered him to pay me. I didn’t ask for details. I didn’t look into it. I didn’t wonder how he managed to me. It didn’t matter anymore. All I needed to know was this. I warned them and they didn’t listen. They chose that path, so they had to face the consequences.

The Final Ask: A Father’s Hospitalization

The next 6 months passed in peace. But then 3 days ago, on an early morning, it all returned in a way that felt all too familiar. It was a Saturday. The sky was gray, and my doorbell rang at 7:00 a.m. The same time they once showed up to ask me for $120,000. I walked to the door, opened it, and was surprised to see my mother standing there, eyes red, face sunken, her hand clutching the strap of her bag like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely. She didn’t speak at first. Then in a small, heavy voice, she said, “Your father, he’s in the hospital. He’s serious this time. The treatment is estimated to cost close to $20,000. I know, I know I was wrong, but please, just this once, help me.” I stood still. At that moment, I didn’t feel anger. I didn’t feel pity, just a kind of emptiness rising in my chest, a feeling I’d known too well whenever I realized I was caught in the same old loop again. I looked at her for a moment longer, then quietly, almost like an exhale more than a sentence. I said, “To me, my parents died the day both of you let Matteo destroy my career and said nothing. And I don’t give money to the dead.” She froze, didn’t cry, didn’t beg again. She stood there, lips trembling like she wanted to say something but couldn’t get it out in time. I didn’t make her wait. I took a breath, then said firmly, each word clear as day, “Ask your heir.” And with that, I gently closed the door. Not harshly, just enough to let her know. This time, it’s not opening again.

By this point, some of you might think I’m cold-hearted, that I’m cruel, maybe even unforgiving. If that’s what you’re thinking, I only ask one thing. Please don’t rush to judge me because the truth is that same afternoon after my mother left, I went to the hospital. I didn’t go into my father’s room. I didn’t stand at the window like in some movies. I called the information desk, gave his name, and asked for an update. I went there to verify to see if she had told the truth, and it turns out she had. My father was hospitalized, and the treatment did cost close to $20,000, just like she said. The documents were right there in front of me. And for a split second, I almost pulled out my credit card. But right after that, my mind flashed back to Easter just one year ago, the day they raised their glasses, publicly handed everything over to Matteo, and told me I should be understanding. The next morning, still not fully clear-headed from the confusion of the day before, I made a few phone calls. Through some contacts in the real estate world, I confirmed that my parents still owned their house. It hadn’t been mortgaged. It hadn’t been transferred. And right now it is valued at around $400,000. With an asset like that, they could easily sell it to cover the medical bills. So no, I didn’t pay the hospital fees. Instead, I sent my mother a single message. “You still have the house. Sell it to pay for Dad’s treatment.” She didn’t reply. I don’t know if she hesitated out of attachment or because that…