The House of Shadows
When we were having Christmas dinner, my grandma laughed and remarked, “Good thing your parents pay off your student loans.” I said, “What loans?” “I quit school to work two jobs.” Dad answered, “It’s not what you think.” Then Grandpa stood up and said something that changed the family forever. As I stood in front of the shiny oak door that Christmas Eve, the chilly air from Ohio seeped through my thin jacket. The phone in my hand was still warm from my grandfather’s short conversation. “Dorian, come over right away. He continued, “I’m at your parents’ new house,” his voice full of delight, as if he were about to tell you a wonderful secret. Grandpa Will was a prosperous businessman who was constantly busy with his construction company in Chicago. He didn’t have an opportunity to visit very often. Even though it was freezing outside, just thinking about meeting him made me grin.
I was immediately struck by the smell of roasted meat and the warmth of the fireplace as soon as I pushed the door open. Grandpa was seated at the head of the table when I entered the dining room. His eyes sparkled like stars. He jumped up and held me hard. His woody cologne made me forget how tired I was right away. “Do you like this house, Dorian?” He inquired, his voice full of pride, as if he had just given me a wonderful gift. “Yes, it’s a beautiful house, Grandpa,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “But it’s my parents’ house.”
There was a moment of deafening silence after that. Grandpa’s face was tight, and his eyes got bigger as they moved from me to my father, Gregory, and then to my stepmother, Susan, who was sitting across the table. My dad, who was generally cool, suddenly turned pale, and his hand shook as he gripped his wine glass. Susan coughed and made a funny smile, but her eyes were full of fear. “Your parents’ house?”” Grandpa spoke again, his voice getting quieter and colder, like the wind outside at night. “Explain yourself, Dorian.”
I didn’t know what was going on, but I had a strong sensation of discomfort. I looked at my dad, hoping for him to say anything, but he just bowed his head and looked away. Susan instantly spoke up, her voice shaking. “Will, there must be a mistake. “This is the family’s house,” but Grandpa didn’t look at her. He glanced at me, and I knew right away that a dreadful secret was about to come out.
My name is Dorian Marston. The narrative I’m about to tell is about the years I lived in the shadow of unfairness and my family pushed me to the side. You might understand my perspective if you have ever experienced a sense of not belonging or being regarded as an outsider. But I still want you to hear this story, even if you haven’t. A story about a youngster who grew up with a heart full of scars and how he found hope in the dark.
The Faint Shadow, Chapter 1
I grew up in a little town in Ohio that was a suburb. Golden leaves carpeted the streets in the fall, and everyone knew each other like family. But my family was not like the others. My mother, Diana, passed away shortly after my birth due to medical issues that I still struggle to fully understand. I just know that she was the only light I never met. Gregory Marston, my father, was a strict guy who constantly stayed away from me. It was as if my presence reminded him of the suffering he wanted to forget. My dad married Susan when I was three. She had a cold grin and calculating eyes. Everyone called their son Benjamin, or Ben for short. They loved Ben more than anything else. My dad thought Ben was the best thing that ever happened to the Marston family. Susan lived to protect and spoil Ben. He was everything to her. I was the undesired stepchild, the child who didn’t belong, the shadow in the house I called home.
I felt the difference when I was young. I remember sitting in the corner of the living room when I was five and seeing Ben receive a remote-controlled toy vehicle, which is what every kid wanted. I got a secondhand plastic vehicle with wheels that were chipped, which my dad thought was “good enough for me.” Susan suggested that Ben required new subjects to explore, implying that I was not deserving of anything more worthwhile. As we became older, the disparities became clearer. When Ben was seven and wanted to learn how to play the piano, my dad quickly hired the best teacher in town. I was told that we couldn’t afford piano lessons when I expressed my desire to learn guitar. Instead, I saved my allowance money for months to buy a used guitar from a pawn shop. I taught myself how to play by reading library books and watching YouTube videos. I spent hours in my room playing as Ben’s piano music boomed through the house during his lessons.
The disparate treatment we experienced permeated every aspect of our childhood. Ben and I both got the flu one winter. He went to the family doctor right enough, but I was given over-the-counter medicine and encouraged to “tough it out.” When Ben’s grades started to drop in fourth grade, my dad hired a private tutor. Susan gave me an old math book and said, “Figure it out yourself,” when I had trouble with it in fifth grade.
Celebrating my birthday was probably the hardest reminder of where I stood in the family. Ben’s birthdays were big events with themes, decorations, and guest lists that seemed to grow longer every year. I remember that his eighth birthday celebration had a superhero theme. There was a bouncy castle and a magician there. When people remembered my birthday, I usually got a store-bought cake and one gift, which was usually something useful like clothes or school materials. Ben went to a fancy day camp that cost more than most families spend on vacation the summer I turned 10. That summer, I was by myself. I read books from the library and did yard work for old neighbors for a small amount of money. Mrs. Patterson, who lived three homes down, became like a grandma to me. She would ask me over for lemonade and cookies, and we would sit on her porch and talk about life and books. “You possess a timeless spirit, Dorian,” she would comment. “That’s a gift, even if it doesn’t feel like one right now.”
When I was 12, I heard my dad and Susan talking about something that would torment me for years. They were talking about Christmas gifts, and Susan was pushing for them to spend more on Ben’s gifts. She remarked, “He’s at that age where he notices everything.” “We can’t let him feel left out.” When my dad said he would purchase me something lovely too, Susan quickly and coldly replied. “Dorian doesn’t require much. “He’s not really expecting anything anyway.” The way she casually brushed it off hurt more than any insult could have.
That same year, I started writing in a small notebook that I kept hidden under my mattress. I wrote about my hopes, dreams, and frustrations, as well as my desire that things would become better. I sent letters to my mom, even though she couldn’t read them, telling her about my day and asking her questions I wanted her to answer. The journal became my closest companion, providing a space where I could express my true emotions without fear of repercussions from others.
School events were another sad reminder of how low I was on the family tree. My dad and Susan both went to Ben’s first soccer game. They cheered loudly from the sidelines and produced signs. When I told them I was on the honor roll for the third semester in a row, they hardly looked up from their plates. “That’s nice, Dorian,” Susan would respond in a disdainful tone before going back to Ben’s boring remarks about his day. The unfairness affected every part of our life. Ben’s room was decorated with sports posters and had a gaming setup. I slept in the basement, which had been turned into a bedroom and had a small window that allowed in very little natural light. People would often say, “Gregory’s son from his first marriage,” when they came around, as if I were some distant relative instead of a member of the family. My dad would only nod and say, “Not bad, but don’t get too comfortable,” when I earned excellent marks. But when Ben got a C, the whole house would celebrate like he had won a Nobel Prize. I wasn’t a kid who was jealous. I really wanted to be liked and recognized, even if it was just once. But as time went on, I noticed that my father and Susan never thought I was good enough.
That summer when I turned 15 was very challenging. Ben went to an expensive basketball camp where he got new clothing and equipment. I wished to attend a scientific camp that was significantly more affordable than the expenses incurred for Ben; however, they stated they were unable to allocate the necessary funds. Instead, I worked at a neighborhood cafe all summer, washing dishes and clearing tables to make my own money. I could see the irony. I was learning how important it is to work diligently and depend on myself while Ben was getting better at sports at camp.
Working at the diner showed me a whole new world. The personnel was nice to me, and Mr. Rodriguez, the owner, took me under his wing. He was a man who came to the United States from El Salvador with nothing but drive and worked hard to build a profitable business. He would say to me, “Mi hijo,” “Success isn’t about what you have; it’s about what you do with what you have.” His words became a guiding philosophy in my life.
Chapter 2: Making My Own Way
I applied for a few part-time jobs during my junior year of high school without alerting my family. I got a job at a neighborhood bookshop where I worked on weekends and at night. The compensation wasn’t great, but I liked being around books and helping people locate stories that would take them to other realms. Sarah, the manager, had just graduated from college and thought I had potential. She asked me to apply to college and even helped me look into scholarships. “You’re different, Dorian,” she said to me one night as we were closing up. “You have a quiet strength that isn’t common for someone your age.” “Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t do great things.” Her faith in me was like water to a plant that was dying of thirst. I took in everything she said to me.
It was a lonely procedure to apply to college. I did everything on my own, whereas other kids had parents help them with essays and visit colleges. I spent a lot of time in the library looking for schools and drafting application essays on the outdated computer in the corner. I wrote about how I got through challenging times, how I found strength in being alone, and how I wanted to make my life meaningful. I got letters of acceptance from many state universities, and I got half scholarships to go to each one. I was pleased, but my happiness didn’t last long. The talk with my dad about paying for college not only killed my dreams but also the last bit of hope I had that he would help me.
I was always reminded that I wasn’t significant in this household, but I didn’t let myself become too sad. I learned how to grin and act like everything was OK. I promised myself that one day, despite my internal turmoil, I would emerge from this family’s shadow and prove to them that I was more than just an insignificant individual. During those difficult years, the library was my safe place. Mrs. Henderson, the old librarian, saw that I came in a lot and became a kind of mentor. She suggested books that opened my mind and made me realize that my current condition wasn’t going to last forever. “Knowledge is power, Dorian,” she would remark. “And no one can take away what you learn.” Her words became my mantra during difficult times. My part-time job at the local hardware store also helped me feel better. Mr. Thompson, the owner, was nice to me and valued what I did. He taught me practical skills such as fixing things, using tools, and thinking creatively to solve problems. I didn’t realize it then, but these skills would be very useful later in life.
I graduated from high school with outstanding grades when I was 18, but no one at home noticed. I aspired to attend college, pursue a career in engineering, or engage in endeavors that would bring pride to Grandpa. He was the only person who really cared about me. But that dream didn’t last long. One night, when I questioned my dad about getting loans or scholarships for college, he gave me a cold look. He said, “Dorian, we don’t have enough money.” “Ben needs to come first.” “We need to invest in him because he has a lot of potential.” I stood there shocked, as if the world was falling apart around me. Ben, the brother who primarily played video games and hung out with pals, was the one who was picked to reach his full potential. I didn’t fight. I didn’t shed a tear. I nodded and walked out of the room. That night, I slept on my old, creaky bed and stared at the cracked ceiling. I promised myself I would get up on my own. I would believe in me even if my parents didn’t.
It was difficult to get used to being independent. I had to learn to manage my money, pay bills, and live alone. I sat alone in my empty apartment eating ramen noodles for the third night in a row, wondering if I had made the right choice. But every morning, I told myself that the hardship was just temporary and that my will was greater than their lack of care. I lived in a studio apartment in an old industrial building that had been turned into a home. Because the walls were thin, I could always hear my neighbors talking, fighting, and watching TV. The heating system didn’t always work, so I often slept in many clothes during the cold Ohio winters. But even with its problems, it was mine. I put up posters from the bookstore where I used to work and got some plants from the grocery store’s sale area to make it look appealing.
Being free and scared at the same time was learning to live alone. I had to learn to cook, do laundry, and budget for food while paying rent and utilities. There were blunders, including meals that burnt, clothing that shrank, and months when I had to pick between paying the power bill and purchasing food. But every mistake taught me something, and I was determined to learn from them. The loneliness was perhaps the worst thing. I could go days without talking to anyone about anything important. My coworkers at Walmart were nice, but most of them were struggling with their problems and didn’t have the energy to make strong connections. Talking to the plants in my flat instead of myself seemed only slightly less sad.
I started helping at a nearby animal shelter on my days off to fight the loneliness. Taking care of abandoned and mistreated animals was like therapy for me. They understood the pain of rejection and abandonment in a way that most others did not. Taking care of a fearful, abused dog and gaining the trust of a cat who had been hurt by people previously was beneficial for the soul. Janet, a retired teacher, was a volunteer coordinator at the shelter for over ten years. She observed my dedication and my harmonious rapport with the animals. One day while we were cleaning kennels together, she said, “You have a gift.” “These animals trust you because they can feel your heart.” You know what it’s like to not be wanted, which makes you ideal for this job.
Janet ended up being an unexpected teacher. She’d invite me over for dinner, and we’d talk about everything from books to life. She had never had kids of her own, but she had spent her whole life assisting other people, first as a teacher and then as a volunteer. She would say, “Family isn’t always about blood.” “It’s not always about the people who love you and the people you love back.”
Chapter 3: The Web of Lies
I got a job at a Walmart in town. First as a cashier, then as a stockroom worker. It was hard work. I was worn out from working long night jobs, on holidays, and with rude clients. But I didn’t say anything. Every dollar I made brought me one step closer to getting away from my family. Maria, my boss, saw how hard I worked and started assigning me more tasks. She said, “You’re not like the other kids. You have something special inside you.” I rented a little, run-down apartment with stained walls and a faulty faucet, but at least it was mine. I didn’t have to listen to Susan’s rude remarks or see my father’s disappointed face anymore. The flat was in a dangerous neighborhood, yet I felt safer there than I ever had at home. I decorated it with things I found at thrift stores and garage sales, and I was proud to make it a space that showed who I am instead of what other people thought it should look like.
At the same time, our parents were completely behind Ben. He went to a private school that was very well-known, drove a brand-new automobile that our father bought, and never had to do anything. It was challenging to see the difference, but it made me more determined to prove them wrong. I was alone during those years. I didn’t have many friends because I worked and saved money most of the time. But I wasn’t completely alone with myself. I got to know my coworkers, especially Carlos, a man in his 40s who had moved to the U.S. from Mexico and worked two jobs to support his family. During our breaks, he taught me Spanish and told me stories about his home country. He helped me see that hard times can make you stronger instead of breaking you down. Carlos possessed a wisdom derived from his struggles, which made me feel better. He had left everything behind in Mexico to offer his kids a better life. He worked several jobs and sent money home while living in a small apartment with three other men. He would say, “La vida es dura, pero nosotros somos más.” “Life is hard, but we are harder.” His resilience inspired me to persevere, even when it appeared that nothing would succeed.
Carlos introduced me to other immigrants who had started over and made new lives for themselves. They asked me to come to their community events, where I felt more welcome and loved than I ever did in my family. They gave me their food, their stories, and their hope. Maria, Carlos’s wife, would bring me extra lunch because she knew I regularly skipped meals to save money. She would thrust a warm container into my hands and remark, “Uno no debe pasar hambre.” “A child shouldn’t be hungry.”
I also wrote letters to Mrs. Henderson, who had retired from the library but still sent me books and words of support. During my worst times, her messages gave me hope by reminding me that someone believed in me. She traveled to Florida to be nearer to her daughter, yet she never forgot about me. Occasionally, her presents would arrive at my apartment, akin to gifts from a benevolent spirit. They would be books or small care packages with tea and handmade cookies. During a harsh winter, when my heat went off due to unpaid bills, Mrs. Henderson intuitively understood my distress. She called me on a Friday night, and her voice was warm and worried. “Hey Dorian, I’ve been thinking about you. How are you truly doing?” Something in her voice broke down the barriers I had constructed around my pride, and I told her everything: how chilly the flat was, how hard it was to make ends meet, and how lonely I felt. A check arrived in the mail the next Monday with a message saying, “Consider this a loan from the library fund.” When you have the opportunity, please pay it back or give it to someone else in need. It was enough money to replace my heat and purchase food for a month. That night, I cried, not because I was unhappy, but because I was so grateful that someone cared enough to help me without demanding anything in return.
I started to grow stronger as I became used to my daily regimen of labor and survival. Every time I solved a problem, like replacing a leaky faucet or dealing with a landlord, I felt more sure of myself. I stopped thinking of myself as a victim of my situation and started thinking of myself as someone who was actively working to improve my life.
There was just one beneficial thing in my life: Grandpa Will. He had a big construction company in Chicago. He would call me often, but always on the house phone first. My dad would answer and tell him how well I was doing in school and how happy I was at home. Then he would want to talk to me in person. I felt like I had to keep the lie going during these calls. I did not wish to provoke a conflict with my family, as my father was typically nearby. When Grandpa inquired how I was doing, I would say things like “I’m fine” or “Everything’s satisfactory here.” One time, when I struggled to pay rent and buy groceries, my Grandpa could tell I was upset and offered to help. But I respectfully declined, wanting to spare him my issues and conceal the truth about my father’s lies. I regret having made that decision, as I am aware of the considerable pain it could have prevented.
Grandpa was the only person who told me about my mom. He claimed that Diana was a kind woman who loved books and wanted the world to be fair. He talked about how she laughed, how much she cared about social justice, and how much she wanted to be a teacher. He said he was too responsible for not being there when mother gave birth to me since he was at work. I didn’t hold him responsible. I simply wish I could have met her once to know that she loved me.
As I became older, I talked to Grandpa on the phone more often, but the calls always went the same way. My dad would always answer first, share his perspective, and then give me a warning look before passing the phone to me. Grandpa would ask me about my job, my dreams, and what I wanted to do with my life. When I told him I worked at Walmart, I could sense the worry in his voice. But I constantly tried to appear hopeful and not say anything that would go against what my dad had told him. “I am building character, Grandpa,” I would say, repeating something he had said to me before. My father told Grandpa that I was choosing to be independent and gain life skills by working and living on my own. He made it sound like a beneficial way to build character instead of leaving me.
Grandpa told me more about my mother’s dreams and goals during one of our talks. He replied, “Diana wanted to open a community center,” his voice soft with remembrance. “She thought that everyone should have an opportunity to succeed, no matter what their situation was.” She would have been deeply proud of the way you are striving to create your own opportunities. These talks became crucial to me since they were the only way I could connect with the mother I never met. Grandpa also told us about the problems he had while he was trying to start his construction firm. He said, “I started with nothing but a pickup truck and a toolbox.” “Your grandmother thought I was crazy, but I had a plan.” “Sometimes, Dorian, the people who love us the most are the ones who believe in us when we can’t believe in ourselves.” His words had a weight that I wouldn’t completely realize until much later.
Chapter 4: The Unveiling
As the months went by, I started to notice small changes in myself. The meek, insecure child who had always been in his stepbrother’s shadow was becoming more sure of himself and independent. I started to speak up at work and offer ideas on how to make the stockroom run better. My boss saw that I was taking the lead and started giving me additional work, which came with a minor but important pay raise. I also started to dream again, not just about getting away from where I was, but of making something important with my life. I would wander around the finer parts of town and stare at the houses, imagining the family that lived there. I wasn’t jealous anymore. I felt inspired instead. I began looking at job options that didn’t require a college degree, such as trades and skilled work. I found an online community for people who had tough childhoods while I was using the library’s internet one night. It was both sad and encouraging to read their experiences. I realized that my traumatic experience was not unique. Thousands of people had been through the same things and not only lived through them but flourished. I started to perceive my struggle as a source of power instead of merely a weight to bear for the first time.
Susan texted me when I was 21. Come over to the new house tonight. The address is 1432 Hollow Creek. Little party. I had never heard them say anything about moving. I thought about it for a while, but then I decided to go. Maybe the move was a chance to reconnect. The new house was in a newly built neighborhood. It was cream-colored and had a stone-stepped front yard, a large porch, and windows that arched. I had never felt so much richness and order in our old house. Susan opened the door. She was wearing a silk dress, and her makeup was perfect. Inside, there was a big living room with shiny oak flooring, a granite fireplace, and family portraits on the walls. There was a picture of my father and Susan’s wedding and one of Ben holding a sports trophy. There are no pictures of me. I wasn’t shocked. There weren’t many people at the party: new neighbors, an older couple, and one of my dad’s coworkers. They talked about the neighborhood, how property prices were going up, and how to decorate their homes. I sat quietly in a corner and listened. No one inquired where I was from or saw that I poured myself water instead of wine. That night, I went back to the apartment I leased, opened my phone to text Grandpa, but then I stopped. I didn’t want to bother him. I lay on my bed and stared at the peeling ceiling, not knowing that the truth was just there under my feet, like an unexploded bomb.
Things started to go weird after that party. They invited me to their place for every big holiday. The invitations were not warm or passionate; they were simply short text messages. They began to include me in family photographs, which felt unfamiliar to me because I had never been part of such occasions before. I was unaware that they had been sending these photographs to Grandpa for years, claiming that I resided there. They would set up these photo shoots whenever Grandpa requested new family shots, making sure I looked as if I belonged in the frame. The photo shoots were stiff and forced. Susan would put me in the right place, always making sure I was visible but not the main focus of the picture. “Smile, Dorian,” she would say between gritted teeth, as if I had to be there. I did what they asked, even though I didn’t know why, believing it meant they were finally accepting me as part of the family. I didn’t know that these pictures were being sent to Grandpa with titles like “Family dinner at home” or “Dorian helping with yard work.” This perpetuated the falsehood that I was content residing in the house he had purchased for me.
Then, on Christmas when I was 23, the truth eventually came out. The phone rang. Grandpa was there. And for the first time in years, he called my cell phone instead of the house phone. “Dorian, I’m in Ohio for a surprise visit. I wanted to come to your house. “Is that our home? Right now, I’m at 1432 Hollow Creek.” I froze. Grandpa was in Ohio. He had flown in without warning, which was something he didn’t do frequently. I hurriedly put on my jacket and ran out.
Christmas lights illuminated the house when I arrived. Grandpa stood in the main room, tall and scary, with his silver hair shining under the chandelier. But there was something strange about the way he looked at me. He looked pleased and suspicious at the same time. “This house is great, isn’t it?” he murmured as he looked around. “Are you content living here?””
I hesitated as a flood of worry washed over me. “I don’t live here, Grandpa.” I only come to see you.
Grandpa’s smile faded and his eyes narrowed. “Tell me the truth, Dorian. You don’t reside here?“
“Grandpa, I reside in a rented flat on the south side of town. I pay for it with the money I make at the grocery store.
Be quiet. A thick, oppressive quiet. “Gregory, explain yourself,” Grandpa said in a voice that was as sharp as a knife. “I gave you $400,000 two years ago to buy a three-bedroom house in this neighborhood as a gift for Dorian to help him get started. Dorian was going to live in the house. Why does he live in a run-down apartment while you and your family live in that house?”
The color drained from my father’s face. Susan opened her mouth, but nothing came out. I stood there in shock, feeling the ground give way beneath me. A house for me? Four hundred thousand dollars?
” My dad answered shakily, “I thought the whole family would use the house better.”” Dorian is his person. He doesn’t need a house this huge. Ben is still young. He needs a suitable place to grow.
“Doesn’t need?” Grandpa yelled. “Gregory, I’ve been phoning to check on Dorian for years, and you always told me he was doing well and happy living in the house I bought for him. You showed me pictures of him appearing pleased and at home. You made me think he was living the life I wanted to give him. But he’s been living in a run-down apartment and working night shifts just to get by, while you’ve been lying to me for years! He pointed to the photos on the wall. ” These aren’t real family images; they’re contrived frauds.
“Get your stuff.” You’re coming to Chicago with me. “I’ll make sure this house is yours, just like I planned.”
The news was too much to handle. They not only took my inheritance, but they also tricked me into helping them lie. Every fake grin and awkward photo shoot was part of their big lie. It made me sick to my stomach to think about how stupid I had been.
Chapter 5: Starting Over in Chicago
We flew to Chicago early the next morning. When the jet landed, we were met by a cold Chicago breeze. We drove through busy downtown streets where buildings stood tall, their steel and glass shining in the winter sun. The car drove into a nice suburban neighborhood and stopped in front of a big iron gate. Behind it was a three-story mansion. Grandpa said, “Welcome to my home, Dorian. Now it’s your home, too.”
Grandpa’s house was like a palace. The carved wooden entrance door led to a large lobby with marble floors and a spiral staircase. The living room was three times bigger than the flat I rented. It had floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto a backyard garden with a pool. He led me to a big bedroom with a king-size bed, a wood desk, and a window that looked out over the garden. “This is where you can start over,” he remarked. “No stress, no worries, just a new beginning.”
That night, Grandpa brought me to a nice restaurant in the heart of Chicago. He told me everything over supper. He had been sending Gregory money since I was a child. Not just for the house, but also for my school fees, clothes, and anything else I required. He assumed Gregory was looking out for me the way he desired, but Gregory had kept everything for himself and his new family. “I’m going to sue Gregory,” Grandpa stated in a voice that was frigid as ice. “I’ll make sure the house goes to you, and I’ll stop giving him money.”
I said, “Grandpa,” in a soft but forceful voice. “Don’t take him to court.” I know you’re mad, and so am I, but it’s too late now. I don’t want to make this last longer. I just want to start anew with you here. He gazed at me, and his eyes got softer. Dorian, you’re stronger than I anticipated. Your mom would be proud of you.
The next few weeks were an emotional roller coaster. I moved into Grandpa’s mansion for good, and every day seemed like I was learning how to live again. Grandpa took me to his construction business and presented me to everyone as his grandchild. I felt like I was being seen for the first time, like I was important. At first, I worked as an assistant in the planning department at his company. The work was hard, but I learned how to read blueprints, understand how buildings are put together, and even started coming up with ideas during meetings. My coworkers started to respect me more as they saw me work hard and not ask Grandpa for special treatment.
I went to college in Chicago and studied civil engineering. I started the journey of learning that I believed was unattainable with Grandpa’s help and the money from selling the house in Ohio. The first several days were hard. I was older than most of my students, and I stayed up late studying since the technical ideas were so hard. But I didn’t quit. I also made new acquaintances in Chicago. These were people who didn’t know my background but liked me for who I was. I joined an engineering group and met Emma, a brilliant girl with a bright grin. I finally felt like I had a place to belong, a community.
Two years went by. I had made Chicago my home. Not only because of the busy streets, but also because I found myself there. I was in my second year of college, and every day I felt like I was getting closer to my ambition of becoming an engineer. But while I was starting over in Ohio, my father’s household was breaking apart.
Chapter 6: Confrontation and Decision
One afternoon in late fall, as I was studying at the university library, my phone rang. Susan’s voice sounded weak and shaky. “It’s Susan, Dorian. I realize you’re busy, but I need to chat to you about our family. We are in peril. Big trouble. I thought you would be able to help. She started telling a long narrative. My dad lost his job after Grandpa stopped giving him money. They had sold most of their things to pay off debts, but it wasn’t enough. They had moved into a tiny flat. Ben had quit college and was working at a fast food place, where he was having trouble with jobs he wasn’t ready for. “Ben’s having a hard time, Dorian,” Susan replied, her voice breaking. “He works at a fast food place, but it’s new to him.” He needs aid.
I laughed, but not because it was funny. It was ironic. Ben, who had been treated like a king, suddenly had to work to stay alive at a job I had done since I was 18. I said, “Susan,” in a calm but forceful voice. “You’re calling me for aid after all that happened? After Dad seized my house? You said I didn’t deserve it, right? You think I’ll forget about the years I was treated like an outsider?
“Dorian, I know we were wrong, but we’re family.” Ben is your brother. You can’t leave your family behind.
“Family?” I said it again, my voice full of anger. “You and Dad never made me feel like family.” You told me I wasn’t good enough. Dad took the house and the money Grandpa sent me for school. And now you want me to aid Ben, the one who always got more attention than me? No, Susan. Let Ben learn to stand on his own, just like I did. “I don’t owe you anything.” I hung up, my heart racing. Those words, “family, Ben needs help,” no longer had the power to change my mind. Not after everything they did.
Gregory’s family was having a hard time in Ohio, but I was still on my way to Chicago. I did well on my midterms, and Emma, my new buddy from the engineering club, held a modest party to celebrate. She had become an important part of my life and made me feel good about myself. I did more work at Grandpa’s business, taking on bigger projects and even running a small construction contract.
I encountered Ben out of the blue one cold day while going through downtown Chicago. He was standing on a street corner in a thin jacket, with a haggard face and sunken eyes. Later, I found out that Ben had gone to Chicago after his business failed in the hopes of finding work. But the change from a life of luxury to a harsh one had been very hard for him. He noticed me first, and his eyes lit up with hope. He shouted out, “Dorian,” in a faint voice. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Ben. You?”
He gave a feeble smile, no longer the haughty lad I once knew. “Not good. Things aren’t the same as they used to be. Can you lend me a hand? Just a bit. I don’t have anyone else.”
I remembered the moments he was favored when I gazed at him. The times I was pushed away. “Ben,” I murmured, my voice calm but firm. “I had to stand on my own when no one else did. “You can, too. Find work. Learn to take responsibility. Don’t look to me to rectify what your family did wrong.” I turned and walked away, heading along Chicago’s snow-covered streets. I didn’t look back, not because I didn’t care, but because I had chosen myself.
Today is my last year of engineering school. I work at Grandpa’s company, where I lead initiatives and develop a future that I thought was unattainable. I now know that family isn’t simply about blood. It’s about the people who love you, believe in you, and are there for you no matter what. Grandpa provided me more than just a house or money. He let me find out how much I was worth. The house in Ohio that should have been mine is now only a memory. I don’t need it to feel complete. I made something better: a life of my own choosing, with people who value me around me.
