Part 1
I was never the golden child.
That title belonged to my older brother, Jason, since the moment he was born. I don’t even say that bitterly anymore. It’s just a fact, like gravity or taxes. I’m Eric, twenty-nine, and I’ve spent most of my life being the invisible one in a family that never made much room for me.
If Jason got a B, it was “He must’ve had a tough exam.” If I got an A, it was “Well, that’s expected from someone who doesn’t have a real job.” And yes—my dad actually said that once at dinner, like it was an observation, not a jab. My mom smiled softly and changed the subject like she always did.
That was the dynamic.
Jason shines. Dad praises. Mom pacifies. And I quietly shrink a little more every year.
I’m not a brooding martyr, though. I built a good life. A quiet life, but one that matters to me. I freelance as a software engineer. Nothing flashy. No “founder” hoodie selfies. No motivational reels about hustling. Just stable contracts, steady money, and work I’m proud of.
I own a cozy one-bedroom apartment. Paid off my car early. I have a handful of friends who listen when I talk. Maybe because I never really got that at home, I value it more than anything.
Jason is the opposite of me in every way my father likes.
He’s a real estate agent with flashy suits and a leased BMW that changes color every other year. His Instagram is gym selfies, espresso shots, and property tours with moody music. His girlfriend—Talia, I eventually learned—films influencer-style reels of them kissing in matching outfits.
My dad loves it.
“That’s what success looks like,” he said once while scrolling through Jason’s feed, not noticing I was in the room.
But I’m not here to catalog every moment of my childhood that sanded my self-worth down like driftwood. I’m here to tell you what happened at my mom’s 60th birthday dinner—the one that didn’t just sting.
It rewired something.
It started like every obligatory gathering: a restaurant I didn’t pick, a group text I was added to last minute, and an unspoken assumption that I’d show up, smile, and stay quiet.
I arrived on time with a gift. It wasn’t expensive, but it meant something. A framed photo of me and Mom from when I was five—one of the rare days she’d taken me out alone, just us. I’d had it restored and put in a simple walnut frame. When she unwrapped it, her smile softened. She even looked a little misty-eyed.
Then Jason handed her his gift.
Designer jewelry, of course.
A sleek box. A brand name everyone recognized. Mom gasped like she’d been handed a miracle. The framed photo—my quiet offering—was gently set aside like a receipt.
Dinner went as expected.
Jason held court. Stories about deals, clients, “networking,” names he dropped like confetti. Dad leaned forward for every word like it was scripture. Mom nodded and laughed at all the right places. Talia filmed a quick clip of the cake being brought out, whispering, “Iconic,” to her phone.
I chewed my overpriced steak and listened.
I tried to talk to Mom at one point. Ask her about the painting classes she mentioned wanting to take. But before she could answer, Dad cut in.
“Eric,” he said, grinning, “don’t you want to ask your brother how he closed on that Beverly Hills townhouse? You could learn a thing or two.”
I laughed quietly. I’ve learned to do that—swallow the sting, turn it into a sound that won’t make things worse. I made a joke about needing to finish my peas first.
Everyone chuckled.
Even if it was at me.
Jason winked like we were in on something together. I don’t think he meant to be cruel. He never has to try. He just exists in a system built to make him glow.
Then dessert arrived: a custom cake with edible gold leaf and Mom’s name piped in perfect cursive. Everyone applauded like it was a mini award show.
Dad stood up with his wine glass, clearing his throat dramatically.
My body tensed automatically. I didn’t know why yet. Maybe because in my family, speeches were never about the person being celebrated. They were about the story Dad wanted to tell about himself.
“I just want to say,” he began, smiling at Jason, “how proud I am of this family, of how far we’ve come—especially of you, son.”
He lifted his glass toward Jason. “You’ve become someone. You’ve built something, made us proud. You’re everything a man should strive to be.”
Jason did his practiced modest shrug—the one that still looked arrogant—and nodded like he’d accept the crown graciously.
Then Dad turned to me.
“And you,” he said, smiling like he was about to be sweet.
I blinked, unprepared for my name to be included in anything.
“Thank you,” he continued, “for staying exactly where you belong.”
For a second, I thought I misheard him.
Then laughter rolled around the table.
Mom’s gentle closed-lip smile appeared. Jason chuckled out loud. Talia laughed so hard she nearly spilled her rosé.
I froze.
My brain fired off every response at once: sarcasm, anger, humiliation, leaving. But my body did what it had been trained to do.
I smiled.
A little too wide. A little too late.
And I nodded.
They didn’t notice the way the smile didn’t reach my eyes. They never do.
I quietly called the waiter over and asked for the bill.
I paid the entire thing. Tip included. Almost six hundred dollars.
Nobody noticed.
Or maybe they noticed and assumed it was the least I could do for being the family disappointment.
Then I stood, pushed my chair in gently, and said, “I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
Mom offered a weak, “Thanks for coming, sweetheart.”
Dad said, “Drive safe.”
Jason raised his glass again like he was toasting me for the role I played.
I walked out into cold night air and sat in my car staring at the steering wheel.
I wasn’t angry yet.
I felt… clear.
Like something had finally clicked into place and stayed there.
I picked up my phone, scrolled to a name I hadn’t called in months, stared for a second, then pressed call.
“Eric,” the voice answered on the second ring. “Wow. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah,” I said, voice steady. “I think it’s time we talked about that offer.”
And just like that, everything changed.
Part 2
I didn’t tell anyone what the call was about.
Not Dad. Not Mom. Not Jason. Not even my friends.
It wasn’t about being secretive for drama. It was about having something that belonged to me without being inspected, compared, or dismissed like it was nothing.
The man I called was Raj Patel—an old college friend who always seemed a few steps ahead of everyone else. Not because he bragged. Because he built things quietly and then let the results speak.
Six months earlier, he’d launched a startup focused on secure backend tools—AI-integrated infrastructure designed for government contractors and compliance-heavy industries. It wasn’t glamorous. It was serious. High-trust systems, big clients, long contracts.
He’d offered me a full-time role back then: senior dev, remote-friendly, equity, real money. I’d said no because my freelance life felt safe, and I wasn’t ready to be tied to anything.
Now I was ready.
Raj didn’t ask why. He never did that thing people do where they pretend not to be curious while being painfully curious.
He just said, “I had a feeling you’d call.”
We spent an hour talking specs and architecture. He wanted me to lead infrastructure design and harden their deployment pipelines—basically build a foundation nobody would see but everybody would depend on.
It felt like someone finally understood what I’d always been good at.
Not being flashy.
Being reliable.
By the end of the week, I signed.
And it wasn’t just a job.
It was an exit ramp.
The funny thing about deciding you’re done chasing approval is how quickly you stop performing. I still saw my family in the weeks that followed, but I stopped making myself small.
When Jason bragged about his sales numbers, I didn’t fake interest.
When Dad joked about how some people “settle” for safe careers, I didn’t laugh.
I just said, “It’s not about flash. It’s about freedom.”
Dad blinked like I’d spoken another language. Mom gave me her warning look, the one that begged me not to rock the boat. I let the silence sit anyway.
Then Jason came to me one afternoon with that buddy-buddy energy he used when he wanted something.
He said he was “thinking about getting into the tech space,” and could I connect him with Raj “just for a coffee chat.” Nothing serious. Just curiosity.
I told him I’d think about it.
I didn’t.
I wasn’t about to hand over the one thing in my life that was finally mine. Not when he already had everything else: the spotlight, the applause, the family story that made him the hero.
But that wasn’t even the breaking point.
That came in March.
Three months after Mom’s birthday dinner, on a quiet Sunday when I was deep in a refactor, Mom called.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she said. “We’re having a little family cookout this afternoon. Jason’s bringing a brisket recipe he learned.”
I glanced at the clock. Noon.
“You’re just now inviting me?” I asked.
“Oh,” she said lightly, “we figured you were probably busy. You always are with those computer projects.”
That phrase—those computer projects—twisted something in my chest.
“You already invited Jason though,” I said.
“Well yes,” Mom replied, like it was obvious. “That’s different. He has to rearrange a lot to be here.”
I wanted to ask what she thought I rearranged every time I drove across town for dinners where I barely spoke. But I didn’t.
I said, “Sure. I’ll come by.”
When I arrived, it felt like walking into a movie already in progress. Jason’s Tesla was parked front and center. Music played. People I didn’t recognize were laughing in the backyard like they lived there. Kids ran around—Talia’s nephews, apparently—screaming with the kind of freedom you only have when adults don’t notice you.
Jason stood at the grill wearing an apron that said Grill King.
“Of course, Eric!” he called. “You made it.”
He handed me a beer like we were frat brothers and clapped my back hard.
Dad’s inside. He’s gonna love this brisket.
Mom greeted me with a distracted kiss on the cheek. “Oh good. You’re here. Can you help Jason with the side dishes?”
“Sure,” I said, because “sure” was my default setting.
The punch didn’t come until after dinner.
We were outside, plates balanced on laps, when Dad stood up holding a beer can like it was a trophy.
“I just want to say,” he began, and my stomach tightened, “how proud I am to see our family growing. Jason’s been killing it this year.”
Jason grinned, basking.
“Two new sales offices,” Dad continued. “A podcast interview. And now—” he beamed—“he’s officially making more in a month than I did in my best year.”
Applause. Whistles. Laughter.
Jason did his humble-brag shrug and said, “Couldn’t have done it without the best family ever.”
Then Dad turned to me.
“And Eric, buddy,” he said, “thanks for fixing the Wi-Fi last week.”
A beat of silence.
Then someone giggled—Talia, I think.
That was it.
My contribution: Wi-Fi.
I didn’t explode.
I didn’t yell.
I stood, set my plate down, and said I had a migraine.
Mom barely looked up. “Oh no. Feel better, sweetheart.”
No one stopped me. Not even Jason, too busy glowing.
I drove halfway home, pulled into a park, and sat on a bench staring at a lake. I wanted to cry—not because I was hurt exactly, but because I was finally done pretending it didn’t hurt.
And that’s when I made the decision.
I wasn’t going to just drift away quietly and let them keep their story where I stayed “where I belonged.” I was going to change the math of dependence in this family.
Not by begging to be seen.
By building something they couldn’t ignore.
Part 3
In April, Raj asked if I’d fly out to San Diego for a summit.
He wanted me to demo a system I’d quietly built—an internal module that was already catching attention from two major clients. The stakes were real: seven-figure conversations, serious executives, the kind of room where people speak softly because numbers are loud.
I agreed.
I spent weeks polishing everything—docs, architecture diagrams, redundancy plans, the kind of details most people only notice when they’re missing. When I walked into that summit, I wasn’t Eric the forgotten son.
I was Eric Morgan, lead solutions architect, the person who made systems stable enough for big players to trust.
The pitch landed. The demo ran clean. Questions came sharp, and I answered them without blinking.
Two execs asked if we were open to acquisition discussions.
I didn’t smile because of the money.
I smiled because I knew exactly what I was going to do next.
Jason had recently announced he was starting a “family newsletter.” A goofy email chain with photos and updates and “milestones.” He roped Mom and Dad into it, of course. He wanted a stage where he could keep shining.
I waited until the second issue.
Jason’s Journal: Edition Two.
It was exactly what you’d expect: his Q2 sales numbers, a picture of his Tesla, a paragraph about “the grind,” and a closing line asking if anyone else had big news.
So I replied.
Hey, figured I’d drop a quick update too. Just closed a multi-million-dollar deal for our platform and got bumped to equity partner. We’re likely expanding to three more countries by fall. Hope you’re all well.
No photos. No links. No brag emojis.
Just a quiet line in the middle of Jason’s noise.
Jason didn’t reply.
Mom responded with a thumbs up emoji.
Dad said nothing.
But something shifted after that.
At the next dinner, Jason wasn’t quite as loud. Dad wasn’t quite as smug. Mom actually asked me what equity partner meant.
For a brief moment, I thought: maybe that’s all it takes. Maybe if they see numbers, they’ll see me.
Then reality corrected me.
Raj called a few weeks later with bigger news. We’d been invited to a private demo for a government innovation board. Invite-only. Quiet room. Big checks. Long consequences.
I was on the phone with Mom when Raj texted me the details. Mom was talking about Jason’s upcoming rooftop brunch with a catered mimosa bar.
For once, I interrupted her.
“Hey, Mom,” I said. “I’ve got something cool too. Raj and I are pitching to a federal board next month. It’s invite-only. Could change everything.”
There was a pause—two seconds, maybe.
Then: “Oh, that’s nice, sweetheart. So you’ll be traveling again.”
That was it.
No curiosity. No pride. No follow-up.
Just her voice sliding back into the old script.
“Well,” she continued, “I hope you can still come to Jason’s brunch the weekend before. He’s renting a rooftop downtown.”
Something inside me went very still.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t argue.
I just said I’d try.
Spoiler: I didn’t go.
Instead, I focused. I poured every hour into that demo. I rehearsed until my voice felt like steel. When the day came, I nailed it.
Raj texted an hour later: You just bought our future.
Two days later, the future wobbled.
A backend exploit hit one of our test systems. Not fatal, but embarrassing. Our core code wasn’t the issue, but optics didn’t care. The board delayed their decision. The team went into emergency audit mode.
For three weeks, I barely slept. Coffee and code. Coffee and code. I missed texts, calls, even my rent payment. I didn’t care. I was in fight mode.
And in the middle of that, my family decided to host a “family appreciation dinner.”
Jason’s idea.
He texted the group chat: Let’s celebrate Mom and Dad for being our rock. Dinner at their place next Sunday. No excuses.
I didn’t reply.
Three days later, Dad left a voicemail in that calm voice he used when he wanted to sound noble.
“Eric, I know you’re busy, but you need to make time for your family. Family comes first. Don’t make your brother look like the only grateful one.”
I stared at my phone like it had grown horns.
Don’t make your brother look like the only grateful one.
Jason’s rooftop brunch was gratitude.
My sleepless nights patching security for a federal board demo wasn’t.
Still, I went.
Not because I wanted to. Because there was still a tiny flicker of hope that maybe—maybe—someone would look at me and ask, Are you okay?
I arrived late. Wrinkled shirt. Unshaven. Exhausted. Hands trembling from caffeine.
Mom opened the door and blinked. “Oh honey, you look tired.”
That was it.
Inside, the dinner was in full swing. Candles. A banner across the living room: To the best parents ever. Jason was playing acoustic covers on a Bluetooth speaker like it was a scene from a movie.
He handed me a drink I didn’t ask for. “Glad you made it, bro. We were just about to give speeches.”
Speeches.
Jason thanked Mom and Dad for believing in his ambition. He thanked them for supporting his “vision.” Mom teared up. Dad looked like he’d won the lottery.
Then Jason turned to me.
“And of course,” he said, “we’ve gotta thank Eric for always being around. Quiet support. Every team needs someone like that.”
Light laughter.
“Thanks for fixing the TV last week too, man. Saved me from missing the game.”
More laughter.
I smiled because if I didn’t smile, I’d break.
Dad clinked his glass. “To Eric, our steady rock.”
That was their praise.
That I existed.
That I didn’t complain too loudly.
Something inside me snapped—not loudly. Like a thread breaking in a dark room.
I stood, said I wasn’t feeling well, and walked out.
No one followed.
Not even Mom.
And that was the moment I stopped feeding the machine.
Part 4
The next morning, I started over.
Not with work—I was still fighting to stabilize our company—but personally. I stopped trying to be seen. I stopped showing up on command. I stopped letting their needs dictate my calendar.
Mom texted asking if I could help her reinstall printer drivers. I ignored it.
Dad emailed asking if I could review a proposal Jason had for an “app.” I didn’t open it.
Jason called asking for “a few lines of code.” I said no.
For the first time, I let their discomfort be theirs.
And like clockwork, they noticed me only when they needed me.
Dad left another voicemail: “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Eric, but you’re still part of this family. Don’t forget that.”
The irony was that I’d never been part of the family the way they meant. I was a convenience. A fixer. Background support.
And I was done playing that role.
Meanwhile, our company stabilized. Raj called to say the board was back in play—the breach had impressed them. We’d handled it with transparency and resilience. “Crisis made us look mature,” he said.
I smiled, not because of the board, but because I felt it too.
I was maturing into someone I used to be before I was made small.
Then Thomas—one of our quieter investors—requested a meeting. Just him and me.
Turns out Thomas wasn’t just money. He was a connector.
“Your system has government potential,” he said, “but it also has real estate applications. High-value portfolios.”
I blinked.
“My brother’s in real estate,” I said.
Thomas nodded. “Exactly.”
And suddenly a thought formed—not revenge, not petty sabotage.
Competition.
Jason was always talking about “disruption” and “innovation” while outsourcing anything technical to whoever promised results fastest. He didn’t understand what he was selling. He just understood how to look like he did.
So I leaned forward and said, “Would you back a pilot module tailored for luxury brokers?”
Thomas smiled like he’d been waiting for me to say it.
“Pitch me.”
I did.
For three days, I barely slept again, but this time the energy felt different. Not panic. Fire.
I built a prototype: a CRM suite for luxury agents with AI-driven lead filtering, smart contract management, and valuation overlays. Everything Jason pretended he offered, but real.
Raj saw the mockup and whistled. “You’re on to something.”
“I want it separate,” I told him. “Quiet.”
Raj nodded. “You need something for yourself.”
He didn’t ask why.
I created a shell company: Equi Solutions. Generic, professional, forgettable.
Then I looked at Jason’s digital footprint. His LinkedIn was fluff. His Instagram was louder fluff. The real story was in the LLCs he’d registered and the half-built websites he bragged about.
Three inactive. One dissolved for tax delinquency. One still active with a broken lead form and a testimonials page that literally still said: This is where your clients rave about your service.
Classic Jason.
I bought a domain name close to the one he wanted—cleaner, more professional, one letter off from his “brand.” I didn’t copy his logo. I didn’t steal his content. I built something better and made it easy to find.
I ran targeted search ads for keywords like premium CRM for real estate agents.
And yes—his business name.
If you Googled Jason’s “company,” Equi Solutions appeared first.
The click-through rate was insane.
The first two brokers signed up for free trials. Then I turned on paid tiers.
Jason started posting vague stories about copycats and haters “stealing ideas.” He posted a blurred screenshot of my homepage with the caption: Funny how some people can’t build their own thing.
I smiled.
He had no idea it was me.
But the real shift came when Mom slipped something during a quiet lunch.
“You know,” she said, stirring her tea, “your brother’s been struggling lately.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
She sighed. “Clients pulling out. He’s stressed. Snapping at everyone.”
Then she said something I didn’t expect.
“I wish he were more like you.”
For years, I’d wanted to hear that.
Now it rang hollow.
Too late. Too easy.
I nodded anyway.
Mom reached across the table. “I just hope you two can make peace. You’re both so talented. If only you’d work together.”
I almost laughed.
But the words planted something else.
Jason was pitching to a luxury development group for a major listing deal. He’d been bragging in family texts for weeks. I knew the group—and I knew someone who knew them.
So I didn’t sabotage him.
I competed.
I demoed Equi Solutions to the group—not as a broker, but as a solution provider. I showed them analytics, predictive buyer modeling, integrations Jason couldn’t even pronounce.
They dropped him within a week.
Jason’s meltdown was spectacular.
Instagram rants. Dark captions. TikToks about “building something while your own family doesn’t support you.”
The irony made me dizzy.
Then Mom invited me to dinner at their house, just the immediate family.
“It would mean a lot,” she said. “Your dad misses you.”
I almost said no.
Then I realized this was the moment.
Not to gloat.
To end the script they’d written for me.
They had no idea what was coming.
Part 5
It was a warm Sunday evening when I pulled into my parents’ driveway.
I expected the old tightness in my chest. The reflexive dread. The familiar sense of stepping back into a version of myself I didn’t like.
But for the first time in years, I didn’t feel it.
I wasn’t there to prove anything.
I wasn’t there to win affection.
I was there to close a chapter.
The porch light was already on even though the sun wasn’t fully down. The house glowed like a set, which wasn’t surprising. Mom always lit things up when she wanted them to look warm.
Inside, jazz played softly. The table was set with polished silverware. Rosemary chicken. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. Comfort food designed to soften edges.
Jason was already there, sitting at the dining table, tapping on his phone, jaw tight. He looked like a man trying to hold his image together with duct tape.
Mom hugged me, cautious. Dad gave me the one-pat-on-the-back version like we were coworkers.
We sat.
Mom folded her hands like she was moderating therapy. “I wanted us all here. Things have been tense.”
Jason scoffed without looking up.
Dad cleared his throat. “Yeah, it feels like you two have been at odds for months.”
“We’re not trying to pick sides,” Mom added quickly.
“There are no sides,” I said calmly. “There’s truth, and there’s habit.”
Jason looked up then, eyes sharp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I played the role you gave me,” I said. “The quiet one. The fixer. The background guy.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “Oh God. Here we go. The martyr speech.”
I ignored him.
“Here’s the thing,” I continued. “I’m not angry about it anymore. I understand why it happened. You need someone to play contrast. You shine brighter when I stay dim.”
That got under his skin. His nostrils flared. “That’s crap.”
“No,” I said, reaching into my bag. “This is not crap.”
I pulled out my tablet and slid it across the table.
The Equi Solutions dashboard glowed on the screen: client metrics, conversion rates, pipeline automation, property overlays. At the bottom, in small print: Founder — Eric Morgan.
Jason’s face drained.
He didn’t speak at first. His mouth opened slightly like the air had been punched out of him.
Dad leaned forward, confused. “What is this?”
“It’s the platform your other son built,” I said, voice steady. “The one replacing Jason’s outdated system. The one his clients are switching to because it actually works.”
Jason shoved his chair back so hard it nearly tipped. “You’re the one behind Equi Solutions.”
“Yep.”
“You stole my clients!”
“I didn’t steal anyone,” I replied. “They chose.”
Jason’s hands clenched. “This is low.”
I stayed seated. “Low was laughing when Dad made that toast about me staying where I belong. Low was treating me like tech support. Low was ignoring my life unless you needed something fixed.”
Jason looked to Dad for backup.
Dad just stared at the tablet like it had rewritten his worldview.
Mom’s eyes were glassy. “Sweetheart,” she whispered, “why didn’t you say something?”
“I did,” I said softly. “For years. Just not loud enough for you to hear.”
Jason paced at the end of the table, shaking his head. “So this is war. You think this makes you the favorite?”
“I don’t want to be the favorite,” I said. “I want to be free.”
The words landed in the room like a bell.
I stood—not to gloat, not to destroy, but to draw a line.
“I’m done playing support character in a story I didn’t write,” I said. “I’m building my own world. You’re welcome in it, but only if you respect me. No comparisons. No dismissals. No last-minute calls to fix your printer because Jason’s too busy posting.”
Jason sneered. “You’re pathetic.”
I smiled lightly. “Then stop losing clients to me.”
He had no comeback.
Dad finally found his voice. “So what now? You walk away?”
“No,” I said, picking up my tablet. “I walk toward something better. If you want to be part of it, meet me there. But I’m not dragging you anymore.”
I stepped toward the door, then paused on the threshold.
“By the way,” I added without turning around, “your modem’s outdated. That’s why your internet’s acting up. Replace it. And this time… figure it out yourselves.”
I walked out into the night.
No one followed.
No one called my name.
And as I started my engine, I felt something unfamiliar.
Light.
Lighter than I’d felt in years.
Part 6
The fallout didn’t explode.
It spread quietly, like ink in water.
Jason lost two more clients within a month. One of them apparently discovered his testimonials were fake and told others. His posts became less frequent, more bitter. Talia stopped filming couple reels and posted a “reset era” story with a solo selfie and a caption about protecting her peace.
Mom called twice and left long, emotional voicemails. I listened to them both. I didn’t call back immediately. Space wasn’t cruelty. Space was oxygen.
Dad emailed me. A real email. Short. No punctuation. Just:
i was wrong
you did good
It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t a full apology. But it was the first time he’d acknowledged reality without trying to reshape it.
Meanwhile, Equi Solutions grew.
Thomas introduced me to three more investors. Raj and I signed a federal pilot by late summer. We hired five engineers. We built systems that didn’t need flash to earn trust.
I still thought about that toast sometimes—the one where Dad said, “Let’s thank your brother for becoming someone, and you for staying exactly where you belong.”
Turns out where I belonged wasn’t under their table, fixing their Wi-Fi.
I belonged at the head of my own.
And the funniest part?
Once I stopped being available on demand, my family had to do something they’d never practiced.
They had to function without me.
They hated it.
But they learned.
Because dependence is a funny thing.
When you remove the quiet pillar, the whole building starts to notice what was holding it up.
THE END!
Disclaimer: Our stories are inspired by real-life events but are carefully rewritten for entertainment. Any resemblance to actual people or situations is purely coincidental.
