parents

All you remembered from childhood was the smell of alcohol and pain. Your parents drank, beat you for every look or word, and brought equally embittered friends into the house. At 18, they kicked you out into the cold with just a backpack, shouting after you, "You're not our son anymore!"

You survived. You studied at night, worked all day. Step by step, you rose from the very bottom.

You're 28 now. You're the most influential person in the country. Your fiancée is by your side, the one who believed in you when you didn't believe in yourself.

Rumors reached them too. Today they were already standing at the threshold of the mansion—dirty, dried up, with the same greedy eyes. Seeing you in an expensive suit, your mother burst into tears: "Son, we missed you so much..."

You looked at them silently. There was nothing in your chest but emptiness.

“You’re right,” you said quietly. “I’m not your son anymore.”