Chapter 3
745words
"Remember when I was twenty-six and brought Vivian home?" My chest tightened just saying her name. "My first love,
together for three years.
She brought an expensive gift that day, wore her best dress.
But Mom's face remained stone-cold, interrogating her about her family background.
When she learned Vivian came from modest means,
Mom immediately pounced: 'Our son will be supporting his brother in the future—quite a burden. I'm afraid someone from your background couldn't handle that reality.'
After Vivian left,
Mom ordered me to end it.
Her reasoning? 'She brings nothing to the table but will drain resources you need for Jason.'
I still see Vivian's reddened eyes, her forced smile,
Mom's icy stare,
and my own goddamn cowardice.
I caved,
breaking the heart of someone who truly loved me.
"You made me dump the woman I loved because she couldn't help bankroll Jason," I said, staring Mom down. "And now you're trying to derail my relationship with Emma too."
Dad suddenly leaned forward. "If we hadn't made you break up then, would you have ever met Emma? Doesn't that prove we were right?"
I couldn't believe my ears.
They discussed the trauma they'd inflicted
as if it were some brilliant parenting strategy.
I let out a bitter laugh.
"Want to know how I really met Emma?" My voice shook.
"After the breakup,
I couldn't sleep without pills. Two, maybe three hours a night.
I dropped forty pounds, stumbled through work like a zombie, nearly got fired.
During a thunderstorm,
I sat on a park bench all night,
and collapsed with a raging fever the next morning.
Emma happened to be passing by. She found me unconscious and rushed me to the ER.
While I lay hooked to IVs, did any of you show up?
Only Emma and my colleagues bothered to visit.
Emma brought me a cactus, of all things.
'Be resilient,' she said. 'Like this little fighter.'
The day I was discharged,
I spotted Jason and his buddies strolling past the hospital entrance, laughing it up,
He walked right past his own brother without a glance.
Without Emma's support, I might not have made it through.
While you all wrote me off as weak and worthless."
"ENOUGH!"
Dad's fist crashed onto the table.
"You ungrateful brat! We raised you, educated you, and now that you've got some success, you throw it all back in our faces?"
Mom's tone turned razor-sharp. "You ungrateful wretch! We sacrificed everything to raise you, and this is how you repay us? With accusations? What has your brother ever done to deserve this?"
Jason finally pocketed his phone, a smirk playing on his lips. "Wow, bro. Never pegged you for this type. Can't help with one little favor, but you've got the victim act down pat."
I watched them tag-team their attack,
and suddenly found the whole scene darkly comical.
So that's what they thought—all my pain and struggle was just "playing the victim."
"Are we done here?" I asked quietly, reaching for Emma's hand. "We're leaving."
"Don't you dare walk out!" Dad roared. "Step through that door, and we're no longer your parents!"
Mom jumped in. "You will contribute to your brother's wedding and house! It's your duty as the eldest!"
I froze mid-step,
turning to face them one final time.
Once upon a time,
those threats would have broken me, forced me to cave.
Not anymore.
"I won't give a single penny. From now on, I'll support you in your old age—that's it. I'm done bankrolling Jason's life," I paused. "And this marriage is happening, with or without your blessing."
With that,
I gripped Emma's hand and walked toward the door.
Dad's voice thundered behind us. "Get out! Don't come back! You ungrateful bastard!"
Jason's voice joined the chorus. "You'll regret this, bro!"
As the door clicked shut,
the shouting was suddenly muffled to nothing.
Emma squeezed my hand,
and whispered, "Let's get our marriage license. Today."
Her eyes blazed with determination, and a weight I'd carried for years suddenly lifted from my shoulders.
"Yes," I nodded. "Let's do it now."
Certificate in hand, Emma and I emerged from the courthouse, fingers intertwined.
We made it Facebook official that afternoon.
The photo was simple—our joined hands, the crisp new marriage license,
with the caption: "Forever yours. Luckiest man alive."
The likes and congratulations poured in immediately.
But within thirty minutes,
all hell broke loose in the family group chat.
