After 10 years of being treated like a “lost child,” my parents demanded I sell my childhood home to pay off my sister’s debts. When I refused, they and my sister vandalized the house, calling me ungrateful. I had already sold the house a year ago to my mother’s ex-husband—a man they had abandoned because he was poor. When the police arrived, he appeared with legal documents, looked my mother straight in the eye, and said, “You just destroyed my house. This time, no one will save you.”
Ten years. That’s long enough for a child to grow into a man, and long enough for the paint on number 42 Maple Street to completely peel off.
I, Lucas, stood on the porch, cup of black coffee in hand, watching the gleaming new Cadillac Escalade pull up in front of the house. The V8 engine roared like a beast, shattering the quiet of the late afternoon.
The car door opened. Three people stepped out.
The woman in the fur coat and oversized sunglasses, even though the sun was setting, was my mother – Linda. The portly, red-faced man beside her was my uncle Frank – the man my mother had left my father for because he was a “real estate tycoon” (though I later learned he was just a third-rate broker). And the young girl with the pink-dyed hair, sobbing uncontrollably, was Bella – my half-sister.
They stepped into the yard, trampling on the hydrangea bushes I had just trimmed. They didn’t knock. My mother pushed open the oak door, striding in as if she’d just come back from the supermarket, not as if she’d been gone for a decade.
“Lucas!” Linda took off her sunglasses, glancing around the dilapidated living room with disdain. “Good heavens, you’re still living in this slum? Ten years and you haven’t changed at all. Still the same failure as your father.”
I set my coffee cup down on the table, calmly looking at them. “Hello, Mom. That doorbell is on.”
“Don’t you dare use that tone with me,” she hissed. “We’re here for something important. Bella’s in big trouble.”
Uncle Frank stepped forward, tossing a stack of debt collection papers onto the table. “Your sister owes loan sharks in Vegas $150,000. She’s young, and she was tricked into investing in cryptocurrency. They’re threatening to chop off her hand if she doesn’t pay by tomorrow.”
“And what does that have to do with me?” I asked, without blinking.
“You’re her brother!” my mother yelled. “It’s your responsibility to protect the family! I know this house is currently valued at around $300,000 because this area is experiencing a real estate boom. Sell it. Immediately. Give me the money to pay off your sister’s debt, and you can keep the rest to rent a small apartment.”
I looked at Bella. She was 22, still wearing Gucci, holding the latest iPhone. She didn’t dare look at me, just hid behind her mother, continuing to play the victim.
“Ten years ago,” I said slowly, “when I was 18, my grandparents kicked me out of the house because I wanted to study Art instead of Business Administration. They called me a ‘worthless child,’ a ‘burden.’ I had to work three jobs at once to buy this house back from the bank when it was foreclosed on due to their debts. Now they’re back, demanding I sell my only home to pay off their daughter’s stupidity?”
“You dare call your sister stupid?” Uncle Frank roared, his face crimson. “You ungrateful wretch! I raised you…”
“You never raised me, Frank,” I interrupted. “And the answer is: No. Get out of here.”
Chapter 2: The Fury
The atmosphere in the room thickened. My refusal was like a spark thrown into a powder keg.
“You said no?” My mother trembled with anger. “This is my house! I’ve lived here for 20 years! My name used to be on the deed!”
“Used to,” I reminded him.
“Frank! Teach him a lesson!” she ordered.
Frank, with the aggressive nature of a bully, looked around. He grabbed the metal baseball bat I kept in the corner of the room (a memento from my father).
“If you don’t sell,” Frank snarled, “I’ll smash this house to pieces so no one will want to buy it! Let’s see if you can keep this pile of rubble!”
CRASH!
Frank swung the bat and smashed the flat-screen TV. Bella screamed, not out of fear, but in agreement: “That’s right, Dad! Smash it! He’s so selfish! He wants me dead!”
She grabbed the crystal vase on the table and threw it against the wall.
“Stop!” I yelled, but didn’t rush in to stop him. I stepped back, pulling out my phone.
“Are you calling the police?” My mother laughed maniacally, grabbing a wooden chair and smashing it against the display cabinet. “Go ahead! This is a family dispute! The police can’t do anything about parents disciplining their children! I’m your mother, I have the right to smash things in my son’s house!”
Within 10 minutes, the living room, filled with childhood memories, had become a battlefield. The glass shattered. The sofa was ripped to shreds. My drawings were torn apart. The estimated damage was no less than $50,000.
They smashed things enthusiastically, venting the pent-up anger of desperate people driven to the brink. They thought that with violence, they would force me to kneel, beg, and sign the papers to sell the house.
I stood in the kitchen doorway, my phone still in my hand, but not to call 911 right away. I was texting someone.
Exhausted, Frank threw his cane to the floor, panting heavily.
“See, you brat?” he sneered. “Now sign the papers to sell the house, or I’ll burn this place down.”
Just then, sirens blared in the distance, then grew closer. Two police cars and a luxurious black sedan screeched to a halt in front of the door.
Chapter 3: The Man from the Past
“You actually called the police?” My mother adjusted her hair, her face showing no fear. “Fine. I’ll tell them you’re mistreating your elderly parents. Let’s see who believes you.”
The police stormed in.
The policeman held a taser in his hand.
“Put down your weapons! Stand still!”
Frank raised his hands, a smirk on his face: “Hello, sir. It’s just a family matter. My son is stubborn, we had a little argument…”
But the officer didn’t look at Frank. He looked towards the door, where an older man, impeccably tailored in a grey suit, was slowly entering. He leaned on a silver-tipped walking stick, his demeanor dignified and composed.
My mother narrowed her eyes at the man. Her expression changed. From arrogance to suspicion, then to horror.
“Arthur…?” she whispered.
It was Arthur. My biological father. My mother’s first husband, whom she had abandoned 25 years ago because he was just a poor factory worker who couldn’t afford her designer handbags.
But the Arthur of today was no longer the grimy, oil-stained laborer he once was. He was the owner of the largest logistics supply chain in the Midwest.
Arthur stepped over the broken glass on the floor, his cold gaze sweeping over Frank, Bella, and then settling on my mother.
“Hello, Linda,” his voice was deep but sharp. “Long time no see. You look… more worn out than I expected.”
“What are you doing here?” Uncle Frank yelled. “This is your stepson’s house, but this is our business!”
Arthur didn’t answer Frank. He turned to me, smiling kindly: “Lucas, are you alright?”
“I’m fine, Dad,” I replied. “But the house isn’t.”
Arthur nodded. He turned back to the sheriff. “Sergeant, I want to file a report immediately.”
“What right do you have?” my mother shouted. “So what if you’re his father? You have no right to interfere with his property!”
Arthur chuckled. A dry, brief laugh. He pulled a stack of legal documents from his vest pocket and held them up in front of my mother.
“You’re mistaken, Linda. Lucas doesn’t own this house.”
Chapter 4: The Twist
The room fell silent. My mother, Frank, and Bella all stood frozen.
“What?” my mother stammered. “He… he said he bought it from the bank…”
“That’s right,” Arthur calmly explained. “But a year ago, when Lucas wanted to expand his studio, he needed capital. I offered to buy the house from him at market price, and allowed him to continue living here to look after it for me. The paperwork is complete, the taxes are paid.”
Arthur opened the file, pointing to the words “Owner: Arthur J. Coleman.”
He stepped closer, standing face-to-face with my mother – only a few handspans away.
“In other words, Linda,” Arthur snarled, his eyes blazing with the anger he’d suppressed for 25 years. “You just destroyed MY house. Not your son’s house. It’s your ex-husband’s house – the one you threw out like a bag of trash.”
My mother’s face turned as white as a sheet of paper. Frank began to tremble.
“If you had destroyed your son’s house,” Arthur continued, his voice sharp, “the police could have considered it a civil dispute, a family matter. You could have cried, played the victim, and pleaded for leniency. But you destroyed the property of a stranger – specifically me? That’s a criminal offense.”
He turned to the police sergeant.
“Sergeant, the total damage here is estimated at around $50,000. Plus, armed trespassing (that baseball bat). I want to prosecute at the highest penalty level: Felony Vandalism.”
“No! Arthur! You can’t do that!” My mother rushed forward to grab his arm, but was stopped by the police. “I’m your son’s mother! How could you send me to jail?”
“My son’s mother?” Arthur looked at her with disgust. “What kind of mother abandons her child for 10 years? What kind of mother returns only to loot and vandalize her child’s shelter? You’re not his mother. You’re a monster.”
Arthur turned to Frank. “And you, you ‘big shot’ broker. I hope you have the money to hire a good lawyer. Because I’ll sue you until you have to sell your underwear to pay for that TV.”
Chapter 5: The Final Verdict
The police began handcuffing Frank and my mother. Bella screamed, collapsing to the floor.
“And this girl?” The officer pointed at Bella.
“She was also involved in the vandalism,” I said, pointing to the wall where the vase had been thrown. “My security camera recorded everything.”
“Arrest all three,” Arthur ordered coldly.
As we were being led to the car, my mother turned back, screaming in despair: “Lucas! Save me! Tell your father to stop! I beg you! Bella is just a child! Frank has heart problems!”
I stood on the porch, beside my father. I looked at the woman who had given birth to me, who had once been my whole world but had now crushed it with her own hands.
“Mom,” I called out, loud enough for her to hear before the car door closed. “Mom was right about one thing. I’m a ‘lost child.’ And today, I’ve decided to leave the past behind. Goodbye.”
The police car sirens blared, carrying the three greedy people away.
The house was now quiet, only the ruins remained. Arthur patted my shoulder.
“I’m sorry I’m late, son. I should have come earlier.”
“It’s alright, Dad,” I smiled, looking at the broken glass glistening in the streetlights. “The house can be repaired. But at least now, it’s free of ghosts.”
“That’s right,” Arthur nodded.
“Dad’s going to send the workers tomorrow. We’ll fix everything. Bigger, prettier. And this time, we’ll install bulletproof glass.”
My father and I looked at each other and laughed loudly. Our laughter echoed through the empty house, heralding a new beginning, one of freedom and fulfillment.
That night at the police station, Linda and Frank learned that Bella’s $150,000 debt wasn’t actually from a failed investment. Bella had used the money to support a con artist boyfriend, who had now run away.
But that didn’t matter anymore. With charges of “Illegal trespassing” and “First-degree property damage” hanging over their heads, and the relentless pursuit of a powerful businessman like Arthur, prison would be their long-term “retreat” for years to come.
This time, no one could really save her.
