Seventeen years had passed since I last saw my parents, and the scars of our past still lingered. But nothing could have prepared me for the shock on their faces when they stood at my doorstep, gazing at the lavish home I now owned.
I had long accepted that our paths would never cross again, that I was just a disappointment to them. But fate had other plans. Last Friday, my parents arrived unexpectedly, their eyes scanning my property as if searching for a different address.
It all began when I was 17, and I dared to defy their dreams of me becoming a doctor. My mother’s voice trembled, “You’re what?” as if I had committed a crime.
I stood firm, “I’m not going to be a doctor. I want to pursue acting and business.” My father scoffed, “You’re born to be a doctor, just like us.”
The argument escalated, and he coldly stated, “Leave. You don’t belong here if you can’t continue our family’s tradition.” With only $100 and a bag of clothes, I ventured into the unknown.
Years passed, and I struggled, couch-surfing and taking odd jobs. But I persevered, landing acting roles and building a small business. Meanwhile, my family’s pride focused on my brother, a neurosurgeon, who earned $750,000 annually.
When my parents returned to Sydney, they were preoccupied with finding a new home, but Sydney’s real estate market proved challenging, even for doctors. Properties in their desired area started at $20 million.
One evening, I invited them to see my place, and their faces went blank as they approached my modern, sleek home. “This is your place?” my father asked, incredulous.
I smiled, “Yes, it’s mine.” Their amazement turned to shock, and my mother asked, “How much do you pay to rent a room here?” I chuckled, “I don’t rent. I own it.”
Their expressions transformed from surprise to disgust. My mother snapped, “You’ve been living like this, and you kept it a secret?” I retorted, “You never asked about my life. You assumed I was struggling.”
My father accused, “This is just a show, isn’t it? A way to insult us with your ill-gotten wealth?” I scoffed, “You think I’m involved in something shady? No, I succeeded in finance. You never cared to ask.”
Their judgmental glances exchanged, and my mother’s tone softened, “We’ll stay with you, then.” But I laughed, “You think you can criticize me, make baseless accusations, and then ask to live here?”
My father pleaded, “You’re our son.” I replied, “You chose to support my siblings, not me. You ignored me when I needed help. You made that decision.”
Their faces fell, and my father threatened, “We’ll remove you from the will.” I shrugged, amused, “What will I do without the inheritance from people who can’t afford to live in my neighborhood?”
As they left, my mother whispered, “We just wanted the best for you.” I smiled sorrowfully, “No, you wanted your own interests. You wanted a successor to your legacy.”
My father warned, “You’ll regret this.” But I stood firm, “I’ve already made peace with it.
