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It hadn't always been like this. The echo of laughter, the warmth of shared meals, the comforting hum of a family united – these were the ghosts that haunted the cavernous halls of this mansion.
I, once the apple of their collective eye, the heir to their sprawling empire, had been the unwitting witness to their spectacular fall.
The word "divorce" hung heavy in the air, a jagged shard of glass embedded in the heart of our fractured home.
My mother, once a radiant sun, had retreated into a lunar eclipse, her eyes shadowed with betrayal, her laughter replaced by a brittle silence.
My father, a titan felled, wandered the halls like a lost ghost, his empire crumbling around him.
And me? I, the only son, the supposed anchor in this storm, was adrift in a sea of bewilderment and rage. The unwavering trust I'd held in my parents, the foundation upon which I'd built my world, had been shattered by a single, earth-shattering revelation: Dad's infidelity.
Cheating. The word tasted like ash on my tongue, a poison that corroded everything I thought I knew. The man I'd idolized, the man who'd taught me about honor and integrity, had succumbed to the basest of desires, betraying not just my mother, but the very essence of our family.
The perfect little family, the one I'd clutched to like a child's prized toy, lay in ruins at my feet. The laughter, the joy, the whispered secrets shared under the covers – all gone, replaced by a chilling emptiness that echoed in the hollow halls.
The gavel's echo still lingered in the air, a morbid gong announcing the end of my childhood.
Ten years old, barely a wisp of a boy, I watched as my parents, once titans locked in an epic battle, crumbled into shadows of their former selves. Mom, her eyes red-rimmed and pleading, fought tooth and nail for custody, but Dad, with his ironclad lawyers and whispered favors, emerged the victor.
Victory, a hollow echo in the wreckage of our family. I wanted neither champion, only the restoration of the laughter that used to echo through these gilded halls. But the divorce papers, cold and clinical, became the new reality, a barbed-wire fence separating us from the life we once knew.
Mom's promises, whispered like lullabies, soon turned brittle in the face of distance. Visits, planned with such meticulous detail, evaporated like desert mirages, leaving behind only the sting of abandonment. Years bled into each other, each empty promise a fresh wound, each unanswered call a silent accusation.
The man who once held me aloft, the hero of countless bedtime stories, became a stranger in his own home. His gaze, once warm with affection, now held a chilling indifference. He moved through the mansion like a ghost, his presence a constant reminder of the fractures in my world.
In the sterile care of nannies, resentment bloomed like a poisonous vine. Pictures, once cherished reminders of happy family dinners, were banished to dusty corners, their smiling faces a painful mockery of what was lost.
The "Dad" I addressed was a formality, a hollow echo of a bond severed. He, in turn, seemed to wear my distance like a shield, his own pain a mirrored reflection of mine.
Years later, the anger remains, a smoldering ember in the ashes of my childhood. It fuels my defiance, my determination to carve my own path, unshackled by the ghosts of their choices. But sometimes, in the quiet corners of the night, a flicker of longing ignites. A yearning for the warmth of a hug, the comfort of a shared laugh, the simple reassurance that I'm not just a pawn in their twisted game.
But deep down, beneath all the hurt and anger, there's still a part of me that longs for that bond, that connection with my dad. I wish we could find a way to bridge the gap between us, to rebuild what we've lost.
Except for my aunt, who moved into the mansion to take care of me, I can't stand anyone else in my family anymore. It's gotten to the point where I despise my parents, especially my father.
I found Aunt Mary's phone lying on the ground and placed it delicately on the couch. Even in her sleep, she somehow sensed my presence. It's like she has this psychic ability to detect me even in her dreams. "Dax, is that you? Have you returned?" she asked, gradually opening her eyes.
"That's me!" I responded, flopping onto the couch across from Aunt Mary and resting my legs on the table in front of me.
"Late again, mister!" she scolded, trying to sit up, her gaze unfocused.
"I was just out partying with my friends, no big deal!" I retorted, cutting right to the chase.
"You could've at least told me you were going out to party with your friends."
"I don't have to give you a play-by-play of my life, Aunt!" I snapped.
"Nope, you're still supposed to tell me everything, no matter what... what if something happens to you!" Aunt Mary exclaimed, her usual self, always more concerned about me than I am about myself.
"But nothing happened to me!" I protested, wanting to assure her that I'm fine.
"You should have at least taken some bodyguards with you... partying alone at night could be dangerous too..."
"Aunt, relax... I can protect myself, I don't need bodyguards!" I asserted.
"It's a good thing you didn't come home drunk this time. And why on earth did you not pick up my calls? Don't you know it makes me even more worried?"
"I didn't have my phone with me at that time!" I explained.
