The House of Shadows
My granny laughed and added, “Good thing your parents pay off your student loans.” I answered, “What loans?” “I quit school so I could work two jobs.” Dad answered, “It’s not what you think.” Then Grandpa stood up and said something that would affect the family forever. I stood in front of the shiny oak door on Christmas Eve, and the cold of Ohio seeped through my small jacket. My grandfather’s brief phone call had caused my phone to heat up. “Come over right now, Dorian.” “I’m at your parents’ new house,” he continued, his voice full of enthusiasm, as if he were eager 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 much time to visit. Even though it was freezing cold outside, the notion of meeting him made me grin.
As soon as I opened the door, the warmth from the fireplace and the smell of roasting meat filled the room. Grandpa sat at the head of the table, and when he spotted me, his eyes sparkled like stars. He jumped up and held me tightly, and the smell of his woody cologne made me forget how tired I was right away. “Dorian, do you like this place?” He inquired with delight in his voice, as if he had just given me a wonderful gift. “Yes, it is a beautiful house, Grandpa,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “But it’s my parents’ house.”
Then there was a minute of deafening silence. Grandpa’s face was tight, and his eyes got big as they moved from me to my father, Gregory, and then to my stepmother, Susan, who was sitting across the table. My father, who was generally cool, suddenly turned pale, and his hand shook as he gripped his wine glass. Susan coughed, which made her smile strangely, but her eyes were full of fear. “Your parents’ house?”” Grandpa spoke again, his voice getting lower and colder, like the wind outside at night. “Please explain yourself, Dorian.”
I didn’t know what was going on, but I felt a sense of dread growing inside me. I looked to my father, hoping for some answer, but he just looked down, avoiding my eyes. Susan instantly spoke up, her voice shaking. “Will, there must be a mistake.” “This is the family’s house,” she said, 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 going to tell is about the years I spent living in the shadow of injustice, pushed aside by my family. If you have ever experienced a sense of not belonging or felt like an outsider, you may be able to understand how I feel. I want you to hear this story even if you haven’t heard it before. A tale about a youngster who grew up with a heart full of scars and how he found the light in the dark.
Chapter 1: The Weak Shadow
I grew up in a little town in Ohio that was like a family. Golden leaves carpeted the streets in the fall. But my family was different from the rest. Shortly after my birth, my mother Diana passed away due to medical issues that I still struggle to fully understand. I just know that she was the only light I never got to meet. My father, Gregory Marston, was a strict guy who never let me get too close to him. It was as if my very presence reminded him of the suffering he wished to forget. When I was three, my dad married Susan, a woman with a frigid smile and eyes that seemed to be planning something. They had a son named Benjamin, but everyone nicknamed him Ben. Their whole universe revolved around Ben. My dad thought that Ben was the Marston family’s pride and future. Susan lived to protect and spoil Ben, who was everything to her. And I was the stepchild, the undesired child, the ghost 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 watching Ben acquire a remote-controlled toy vehicle, which was the kind of car every kid wanted. I got a secondhand plastic vehicle with broken wheels, which my dad stated was “good enough for me.” Susan remarked that Ben needed new things to stimulate his mind, implying that I wasn’t worthy of anything better. As we got older, the distinctions became more clear. When Ben was seven and wanted to take piano lessons, my dad quickly located the greatest teacher in town. When I said I was keen to learn guitar, they said we couldn’t afford it. Instead, I saved up my little bit of allowance money for months to buy a used guitar from a pawn shop. I learned how to play by reading library books and watching YouTube videos. I spent a lot of time in my room playing as Ben’s piano music played in the background during his lessons.
The difference in how we were treated became a part of our daily lives and affected every part of our development. My father hired a private tutor for Ben when his grades started to drop in fourth grade. When we both got the flu one winter, Ben was sent to the family doctor almost right away, but I was advised to “tough it out” and given over-the-counter medicine. Susan gave me a worn-old math book and said, “Figure it out yourself,” when I had trouble with math in fifth grade.
Birthday parties were perhaps the hardest things for me to remember about my place in the family. Every year, Ben’s birthday parties got bigger and bigger, with more guests, decorations, and themes. I recall that his ninth birthday celebration was centered around superheroes, featuring a bouncy castle and a magician. When people did remember my birthday, I usually got a store-bought cake and one gift, which was usually something useful like clothes or school materials. Ben attended an exclusive day camp that exceeded the typical expenditure families allocate for summer vacations when I was ten years old. I read books from the library and helped my elderly neighbors with yard work for pocket money that summer. Mrs. Patterson, who lived three homes away, became like a grandma to me. She would invite me over for cookies and lemonade, and we would sit on her porch engaging in conversations about books and life. She would remark, “You possess an old soul, Dorian,” and that was a gift, even if it does not seem like one at this moment.
I overheard my father and Susan conversing when I was twelve years old, and that moment remained with me for many years. They were talking about Christmas gifts, and Susan was pushing them to spend more money on Ben’s gifts. “He notices everything at that age,” she remarked. Susan quickly and coldly said, “We can’t let him feel left out.” This was when my father said he would get me something nice, too. ” Dorian doesn’t require a lot. “He’s not really expecting anything anyway.” The way she casually brushed him off hurt more than any insult could have.
That year, I started writing in a journal, which was a little notebook I kept hidden under my mattress. I wrote about my hopes, dreams, and frustrations, as well as my hopes that things might change someday. I sent letters to my mom even though she couldn’t read them. I told her about my day and asked her questions that I wanted her to be able to answer. The journal became my closest companion, providing a safe space where I could express my true emotions without fear of repercussions from others.
School events were another sad reminder of where I stood in the family. My dad and Susan went to Ben’s first soccer game and cheered loudly from the sidelines with signs they made themselves. When I told them I made the honor roll for the third semester in a row, they hardly looked up from their plates. “That’s nice, Dorian,” Susan would remark without really paying attention. Then she would go back to listening to Ben’s boring remarks about his day. The unfairness affected every part of our life. Ben had his room with sports posters and a gaming setup. I slept in the basement, which had been turned into a bedroom with a small window that didn’t allow in any natural light. People would often say, “Gregory’s son from his first marriage,” when they came over, as if I were a distant relative instead of a member of the family. My dad would only nod and remark, “Not bad, but don’t get too comfortable,” when I received excellent grades in school. But when Ben got a C, the whole house would celebrate like he had won a Nobel Prize. I wasn’t a jealous child. I really wanted to be liked and recognized, even just once. But as the days went by, I noticed that my father and Susan never thought I was good enough.
That summer, when I turned 15, was very difficult. Ben went to a pricey basketball camp where he got new clothing and equipment. I wanted to go to a scientific camp that cost a lot less than what they paid for Ben, but they said their budget was too tight. Instead, I worked at a café in the summer, washing dishes and cleaning tables to make my own money. I got the irony. While Ben was getting better at sports at camp, I was learning how important it is to work diligently and depend on myself.
Working at the diner showed me a whole new world. The staff treated me with respect, and the owner, Mr. Rodriguez, took me under his wing. He was a man who came to the U.S. from El Salvador with nothing but determination and worked hard to build a profitable business. “Mi hijo,” he would say to me, “success isn’t about what you’re given; it’s about what you do with what you have.” His words became a guiding philosophy in my life.
Chapter 2: Making My Own Path
During my junior year of high school, I applied for various part-time jobs without alerting my family. I was recruited at a neighborhood bookshop where I worked evenings and weekends. I didn’t make much money, but I loved being around books and helping people uncover stories that would take them to other places. The manager, Sarah, was a recent college graduate who recognized potential in me. She urged me to apply for college and even helped me investigate funding opportunities. “You’re different, Dorian,” she informed me one evening as we were closing up. “You have this quiet strength that’s rare in someone your age. Don’t allow anyone to convince you that you’re incapable of great things.” Her belief in me was like water to a drought-stricken plant. I took in every word of support she gave me.
It was a lonely trip 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 quite happy, 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 get too sad. I learned how to grin and act like everything was OK. I told myself that one day I would get out of this family’s shadow and show them that I wasn’t the useless person they believed I was, even if I was going through a storm inside. During those hard 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 imperfections, it was mine. I made it look nice with posters from my old bookshop and some plants I bought on sale.
It was both freeing and scary to learn how 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 really 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 with a note saying “Consider this a loan from the library fund” came in the mail the next Monday. 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 buy food for a month. That night, I cried, not because I was sad, but because I was so grateful that someone cared enough to help me without expecting anything in return.
I started to grow stronger as I got used to my daily routine of work 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, because I didn’t want to bother him with my issues or reveal the truth about my father’s lies. I regret having made that decision, as I recognize the considerable pain it could have prevented.
Grandpa was the only one who told me about my mother. He stated Diana was a kind woman who loved reading and dreamed of a fair world. He described her giggle, her enthusiasm for social justice, and her hopes of becoming a teacher. He blamed himself for not being there when she gave birth to me, as work had kept him away. I didn’t blame him. 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 always tried to appear hopeful while being careful not to contradict whatever my father had told him. “I am building character, Grandpa,” I would say, repeating something he had said to me before. My father had explained to Grandpa that I was choosing to be independent and gaining life skills by working and living on my own, making it sound like a positive character-building exercise rather than abandonment.
During one of our chats, Grandpa told me more about my mother’s hopes and objectives. “Diana wanted to open a community center,” he said, his voice soft with memory. “She believed everyone should have a chance to succeed, no matter their situation. She’d be proud of how you’re fighting for your own chances.” 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 started drawing me into family pictures, which made me feel strange because I had never been included in those kinds of things before. I didn’t know that they had been sending these pictures to Grandpa for years, saying that I lived 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 happy 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.” You’ve been using Dorian as a prop to trick me into thinking he was happy living here when he was really struggling alone.” My throat clenched. The pictures and the times I was asked to pose were all to trick Grandpa into thinking I was part of this joyful family.
“Dorian.” Grandpa turned to me, his voice getting softer but still firm. “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. A cold Chicago breeze welcomed us as the jet touched down. We drove through busy downtown streets where buildings stood tall, their steel and glass shining in the winter sun. The automobile went into a fancy 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 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 begin again,” he remarked. “No stress, no worries, just a new beginning.”
That night, Grandpa brought me to a lovely 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. Grandpa exclaimed, “I’m going to sue Gregory,” and his voice was as cold 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 outraged, and so am I, but it’s too late now. I don’t want to make this experience last any longer. “I just want to start over with you here.” He glanced at me, and his eyes softened. “You are stronger than I thought, Dorian.” “I’m proud of you.”
The weeks that followed were full of ups and downs. 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 experienced a sense of importance and recognition for the first time. At first, I worked as an assistant in the planning department at his company. The work was challenging, 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 diligently 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 difficult. I was older than most of my students, and I stayed up late studying since the technical ideas were so challenging. 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. I made Chicago my home not only because of the busy streets, but also because I discovered my true self 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 know you’re busy, but I need to talk to you about our family. We are in peril. We are facing significant challenges. “I thought you might be able to help,” she said, and then she told a long story. 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 apartment. 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 he’s not used to it.” 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. “Are you really calling me for help after everything that has happened?” After Dad seized my house? After you told me I didn’t deserve it? You think I won’t remember the years I was treated like an outcast?”
“Dorian, I know we were wrong, but we’re family. Ben’s your brother.” You can’t turn your back on your family.”
“Family?” I said it again, my voice full of anger. “You and Dad never treated me 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 said, and then I hung up. My heart was racing. Those words, “family, Ben needs help,” didn’t move me anymore. Not after everything they did.
Gregory’s family was having a difficult 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 positive 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 awful for him. He noticed me first, and his eyes lit up with hope. He shouted out, “Dorian,” in a faint voice. “How are you?””
“Ben, I’m fine. What about you?”
He smiled weakly, no longer the cocky kid I used to know. “Not good. Things aren’t the same as they used to be. Can you please lend me a hand? Just a bit. “I don’t have anyone else.”
I gazed at him and thought about the times he was the favorite. 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 how to be responsible. “Don’t expect me to fix what your family did wrong.” I turned around and went away, down the snowy streets of Chicago. I didn’t glance back because I had made a choice, not because I didn’t care.
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 pertains to those who care for you, have confidence in you, and remain steadfastly supportive regardless of the circumstances. 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.
