At 25, I built my own house, and at the housewarming party, my mother took me aside, Son, give this house to your brother, and a room with us will be enough for you

From the day he could remember, Marcus Langenfeld knew he was unwanted. His mother, Irina, treated him as if he were an inconvenience, saving all her affection for his younger brother, Stefan. While Stefan was coddled and praised, Marcus grew up on sharp words and colder meals.

At seventeen, Irina’s resentment finally took form. “You’re old enough to fend for yourself,” she said, standing in the doorway with folded arms. “This house is not yours. Stefan needs space. Go make your own way.”

Marcus left that night with a duffel bag and a heart full of bitterness. He slept in hostels, took odd jobs on construction sites, and studied at night until exhaustion blurred his vision. Every insult, every slammed door became fuel. He worked through hunger, rain, and humiliation—determined to build something no one could take from him.

Years later, he did exactly that. At twenty-five, Marcus owned a thriving construction company in Rotterdam. He married Amalia, a kind woman who saw his quiet strength, and together they built a bright, welcoming home — one filled with love, laughter, and children who never had to earn affection.

Meanwhile, Irina’s world withered. Stefan squandered opportunities, drank heavily, and lived off her dwindling savings. Their small apartment in Dresden became a symbol of decay — peeling wallpaper, unpaid bills, and the echo of choices gone wrong.

Then one autumn afternoon, Irina and Stefan appeared unannounced at Marcus’s front door. The air inside his home smelled of coffee and pinewood polish. Amalia, always gracious, offered pastries and tea. Irina’s eyes roamed over the high ceilings and polished floors.

“You’ve done well,” she said with a faint smile, before adding, “But Stefan has nothing. You should give him a house like this. He’s your brother.”

Marcus froze, then laughed — not out of humor, but disbelief. “You want me to give him a house? You threw me into the street when I was seventeen. You didn’t care where I slept or if I ate. And now you think I owe something to either of you?”

“Blood is blood,” Stefan muttered, his voice thick with resentment.

Marcus’s tone turned to ice. “No. Blood is obligation only when love exists. You made sure there was none.”

Irina’s face hardened. “Don’t speak to your mother that way,” she snapped, rising too quickly and stumbling against the chair. She caught herself, trembling. For a moment, Marcus almost pitied her—but only for a moment. He stopped Amalia from helping her up.

Irina stood there, flushed and humiliated, as the reality sank in: the son she had cast aside had grown into a man beyond her reach.

After that day, Marcus cut all contact. He focused on his company, his wife, and their children. He built schools, housing projects, and a life defined not by revenge but by purpose. Meanwhile, Irina aged alone beside the son she had spoiled into ruin.

Years passed before their paths crossed again. At a supermarket in Hamburg, Irina spotted Marcus with his wife and toddler. His cart brimmed with fresh produce and wine; hers carried only day-old bread.

“Marcus,” she called, almost pleading.

He turned, met her eyes, then turned away. “Marcus, it’s me—your mother!” she said, voice breaking. He didn’t stop. He simply took Amalia’s hand and walked out.

Later, she saw him again at a clinic, holding a dark-haired little girl who looked just like him as a child. “What a beautiful child,” Irina whispered. “Tell me her name. I’m her grandmother.”

Marcus looked at her with calm detachment, then turned and walked away.

The last time she saw him was through the window of a café in Lyon. He was laughing with his family — a picture of the peace she had denied him. When he looked up and met her eyes, she raised a hesitant hand in greeting. He looked away and kissed his daughter’s forehead.

That night, back in her small, dim apartment, she sat beside Stefan — now drunk and asleep on the couch — and whispered to the darkness, “I lost the best of my children.”

For once in her life, Irina didn’t lie to herself.