Blind Brother: The Real Son They Abandoned

I have always known since I was young that I am not the Luther family's biological son. I accidentally break my younger brother Henry Luther's limited-edition figure while cleaning the room, and Dad punishes me by making me kneel in the rain all night. Dad actually defends Henry when he accidentally blinds me in one eye with a high-powered laser pointer, saying, "Henry didn't do it on purpose. He just got rowdy while playing around, Julian." Henry flashes me a triumphant smile once I go permanently blind in my right eye. "That's what you get for living in our house when you're nothing but an outsider!" I am nothing but an outsider to them. I have done everything I can to please them for the past 18 years, but I have never managed to become part of their family. I accidentally discover a shocking truth one day—the paternity test clearly proves that I am Dad's biological son, whereas Henry is the adopted one. In that instant, my breath catches in my throat. Chapter 1 Dad picked up the last piece of honey-glazed ribs at the dining table during dinner and placed it on my younger brother Henry Luther's plate. My hand froze, my fork still in midair as I reached for the honey-glazed ribs dish. I hesitated for a moment before picking up some vegetables instead. "I'd like to sign up for a math competition prep class, Dad…" Dad didn't even bother to look up from his food. "Henry's grades slipped on his last monthly exam, so help him with his studies this weekend instead." I said hesitantly, "I need to study for my own exams too…" Dad put down his cutlery and looked at me. "Your grades are good anyway. What's the big deal about helping Henry? I didn't raise you all these years just for you to refuse such a small favor, Julian." Henry chewed on the honey-glazed rib and said through his mouthful, "I'd like to join the public speaking competition—the city-wide one." Dad instantly agreed. "Go ahead and sign up for it. How much is the registration fee?" "90 dollars." "I'll transfer the money to you tomorrow." Doreen Lowe, my teacher, recommended me for the state math competition last month, with the registration fee being 45 dollars. At the time, I lingered by the living room doorway for a long time before working up the courage to ask for the money. Dad wiped the coffee table and didn't even raise his head. "You might not even win the competition if you prepare for it. Where do you think we're supposed to get that much money, Julian?" I eventually had to tell Ms. Lowe that I didn't want to participate in the math competition when she asked me about it two more times. "I'm done," Henry said as he pushed his plate away, leaving more than half the plate of food untouched. Dad reached out and felt Henry's forehead. "Why did you eat so little? Do you not feel well?" "I played basketball with some friends this afternoon and had cold soda after that." Dad pushed the plate back to Henry and said, "You have to finish your food since you're still growing. Go on now, Henry." I looked down at my plate, where most of the food remained, feeling a lump in my throat. I chewed on the vegetables for a long time before finally swallowing. Three days ago, I went to the academic affairs office to help sort out student files. I noticed that the door was slightly ajar. Before I could push it open, I heard two teachers talking inside. "Henry Luther from Class 3 had type B blood listed on his last medical checkup." "Huh? That can't be right. His father listed himself as type O on the emergency contact form he filled out during the parent-teacher meeting, while his mother is type O as well. How could two type O parents have a type B child?" There was a moment of silence inside, followed by the sound of papers being flipped through. "Henry wasn't the one adopted by the Luther family, right? I recall them adopting a boy by the name of Julian Luther." "That makes even less sense, then." I stood outside the door, my hand resting on the doorknob. I couldn't bring myself to push the door open. Mom and Dad were both type O. I mentally went over the blood type chart from biology class. I knew very well that two type O parents couldn't possibly have a type B child. I crouched on the floor, replaying those words in my mind. I suddenly heard a buzzing filling my ears. Could it be that Henry wasn't Mom and Dad's biological son either? Who was their biological son, then? I had been turning that thought over in my head for three days. Once we were done with dinner, Dad ordered me, "Go wash the dishes. Henry wants to watch the basketball game." I remained seated, my mind still stuck on Henry's student file. "Go on, then!" Dad urged. I got up and walked into the kitchen. I cranked the faucet all the way up, and the water hit the side of the bowl and splashed all over me. I looked down at my hands, noticing that the second joint of my left ring finger had a slight crook in it, exactly like Dad's. I suddenly realized that the bridge of my nose was straight and high, exactly like Mom's. I also had a dimple on the left side of my cheek, exactly like Dad's. I already knew I was adopted when I was six years old, so whenever I noticed these similarities, I always told myself they were just coincidences. However, once three years ago, a distant relative dropped by, took one look at me, and said to Dad, "That boy has got your eyes—dark and bright, just like yours." Dad didn't react much. He waved a hand and said, "He's not even my biological son. How could we possibly look alike?" During the visit, that uncle kept complimenting me, saying I was sensible, hardworking, and capable of doing so many household chores. Henry heard every bit of it, so once that uncle left, he took out the high-powered laser pointer he had just bought and pointed it around the living room. I was squatting on the floor cleaning up the fruit platter on the coffee table when he told me to look up. I barely raised my head before the red laser beam shot straight into my right eye, the pain instantly hitting me. That was when I went blind in my right eye. Chapter 2 I dropped to the floor, clutching my eye, and heard Henry laughing. "You brought this on yourself by having such pretty eyes." It was already too late by the time I made it to the hospital. Henry hid behind Dad, putting on a pitiful expression. He claimed he hadn't done it on purpose and had only been fooling around like any other boy. He said he hadn't known it would turn out this badly. Dad shielded him, patting his shoulder. "It's alright. I know you didn't do it on purpose, Henry." He then turned to me with a furrowed brow and said, "Henry didn't do it on purpose. You're the older brother, so don't make a big deal out of it, Julian." I lay in the hospital bed, a bandage covering my right eye. I looked at Dad and asked, "W-what about my eye, Dad?" "The doctor said it can't be fixed. You'll just have to use your left eye from now on. Don't be such a baby about it, Julian," Dad said before he went back to soothing Henry. He even took Henry out to buy the new game console as a treat to make up for the scare. I was 15 years old when that happened, so I knew well enough what was happening. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to face the fact that Dad didn't love me. I got used to seeing the world with one eye, used to the permanent blur of gray where my right eye used to be. I still sometimes walked into doorframes on my right, spilled water when pouring it, or read until my left eye hurt and began to tear up. Nobody ever took note of these struggles. One day, Henry walked past me and asked, "Does your eye still hurt?" I was taken aback for a moment. It had been quite a while since he'd asked about my eye, after all. "It doesn't hurt anymore." Henry nodded and took a step forward. He suddenly looked back and said, "It's good that it doesn't hurt. It's not as if it'd change anything, right?" He cocked his brow slightly, a triumphant grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. I snapped out of my memories as I finished washing the dishes and went into the living room. Dad was carefully cleaning Henry's newly purchased limited-edition sneakers with a shoe brush, muttering as he worked, "Henry is going to look so handsome in these. He takes after me when it comes to style." Henry smiled, telling Dad not to get any dirt on them. Dad chuckled and handled the sneakers more delicately. My sneakers had been falling apart at the soles for ages, but Dad had never bought me a new pair. I remembered that whenever my shoes got worn out as a child, Dad would head down to the workwear market to pick up the cheapest stiff-soled shoes, saying boys didn't need to be pampered. He would use the money he'd saved to buy designer-brand shoes for Henry instead. I watched him polish Henry’s sneakers while standing in my old, ill-fitting shoes. I always felt inferior to Henry. He had everything I didn't, and the designer-brand shoes he wore always made my eyes sting. I walked past them without either of them sparing me a glance. I returned to my room and closed the door behind me. I got ready to do my homework as the light from my desk lamp fell across the paper. I suddenly heard Dad speaking from the living room. "Your birthday's next week, Henry. I've ordered a large birthday cake for you. How many of your friends do you want to invite over to play video games and celebrate with you that day?" Henry's birthday fell on the same day as mine—or at least, that was the day we were both brought home. I had asked Dad back when I was still young why Henry got a cake while I got nothing. He simply told me that Henry was his biological son and I wasn't and that as the older brother, I had to be more sensible. I was only six years old that year, but from that day on, I knew how things worked. Henry had been kidnapped by human traffickers, and I was found alongside him. We were two newborn boys, both less than a month old, and we looked almost alike. Following the paternity test, Mom and Dad took Henry, their biological son, home. They probably felt some kind of bond with me, so they chose to adopt me and raise me as their eldest son. I finished my homework, turned off the desk lamp, and sat in the dark for a while. I kept thinking back to what those two teachers had said—two people with type O blood could never have a child with type B blood. Could there have been a mistake in the paternity test all those years ago, then? I took a deep breath, finding the idea completely absurd the moment I considered it. I closed my eyes, not daring to think about it any further. I was almost afraid of what I might find if that assumption turned out to be true. Chapter 3 The following morning, Dad brought out two plates of pasta. Henry's came with meatballs and mushrooms in a creamy white sauce, while mine was plain pasta with a thin, watery sauce, the pasta still slightly undercooked. "Why isn't mine the same as Julian's, Dad?" Henry asked, prodding the meatball on his plate with his fork. He was asking a question he already knew the answer to. "You're at the age where you're still growing, and basketball burns up a lot of energy. You need to have more meat in your diet, Henry," Dad replied. He then pushed a small plate of olives in front of me and said, "You should have these." Henry asked, "Isn't Julian at the age where he's growing, too, Dad?" Dad glanced at me, his expression cold and indescribable. "He doesn't need the extra nutrients. He spends all day cooped up studying anyway, so giving him such good food would be a waste." I lowered my head and ate my pasta, which was still a little undercooked and hard to chew. I couldn't help but feel the bitterness rising within me, almost choking me. Henry said, "I'm going to the mall this afternoon to pick up a suit for the public speaking competition. I want you to come help me pick one, Dad." Dad said, "I'd like that. I was planning to stop by the mall myself anyway." I spoke up. "I want to go to the mall too." Dad turned to look at me, his brow furrowing again. "What are you going for? Henry is buying a suit for this competition. Why do you have to come along?" "I-I want to buy a pair of shoes…" I had worn my sneakers for almost two years, and the soles were so worn down that my socks were showing through. "What's wrong with the pair you have?" "The soles are almost worn completely through…" "Just have Henry give you one of his spare pairs. He has so many shoes, and most of them are barely worn." Henry chuckled softly and said, "You can have the black pair in the shoe cabinet. I'm not into that style anymore." I instantly fell silent. I ran a fever of 102.2 degrees Fahrenheit for three days last month. Dad told me to take some medicine and tough it out like a man. He accused me of making a fuss when I told him I was so dizzy that I could barely stand. Yet, when Henry sneezed twice, Dad rushed to take him to the hospital for a full checkup. He even pinned the blame on me before leaving. "Henry got sick because you passed it on to him, Julian!" I clenched my fists tightly, my eyes completely bloodshot. I eventually walked to the neighborhood clinic by myself and sat through two IV bags. I got scolded by the doctor there. "What were you thinking? You can't just ignore your health because you're young! If you'd waited any longer, it would've developed into myocarditis!" I merely lowered my head and told myself that it didn't really matter. Dad had found me and taken me in, so my life was never really mine to begin with. If I were gone, I figured no one would be sad about it. I snapped out of my memories as the conversation in the academic affairs office suddenly came to mind. I walked into the bathroom on a whim and stared at my own face in the mirror—the one that looked almost 80% like Mom's and Dad's. I made up my mind right there and then. I collected the hair Dad had left on his comb that morning. I opened the map app on my phone and looked for the closest paternity testing center, which was right across from the general hospital in the city, about half an hour by bus. When the bus arrived, I boarded and took a window seat. I found that my palms were already slick with sweat by the time I got off the bus. The paternity testing center was located on the fourth floor of an old office building. The elevator doors opened right up to a glass door with a sign plastered on it, reading, "Paternity Testing Consultation Office". The receptionist at the front desk accepted the hair sample and placed it in a sealed bag. "Your results will be ready in five business days." It was almost nightfall when I returned to the residential complex. "Where have you been? Why did you return home so late?" "I just went out for a stroll." I noticed that the dining table was a mess, with nothing left but scraps and cold leftovers. "You can make yourself a box of mac and cheese. You've only got yourself to blame for coming home this late." Dad suddenly looked at me and said, "Henry's taking part in the citywide public speaking competition next week, so go over his speech and polish it up for him. You're pretty good at writing, aren't you? You might actually be good for something this time." I hummed in agreement and walked into my room on an empty stomach. I sat down at the desk, the glow of the computer screen lighting up my face as I revised his speech. I looked at the topic "The Person I Admire Most" and found that Henry had written about Dad. I rewrote the opening and added a detail about how, when Henry was little and fell ill, Dad had carried him to the hospital on his back and stayed up all night. I had to make that detail up since I had never experienced such a thing. I felt my right eye aching again. I rubbed it and went back to working on the speech. I had to wait five business days. It was Saturday today, so the results would be ready by next Friday. Henry called out from the living room. "I want an ice-cold Coke, Dad!" "There's some in the fridge! Get Julian to get it for you!" "Julian! Coke!" I walked out of my room and went to the fridge to grab his drink. I handed the drink to Henry. He took it and looked at me. "Why is your right eye bloodshot?" "It's nothing." "You can spare me that pitiful act. You're getting on my nerves, Julian." I didn't have time to put on a pity act—all I could think about was what the test results would tell me the following Friday. Chapter 4 Once I finished editing the speech, I went to the kitchen to wash the dishes. Dad happened to be on a phone call in the living room, so his voice carried clearly into the kitchen. "Julian's adopted, so I just can't feel any real affection toward him, no matter how hard I try." I went completely still. Dad had the call on speaker, so I could hear what the person on the other end said. "You've raised him for 18 years! Surely you feel something for him by now, right?" Dad leaned back on the couch and lit a cigarette. "How could I? Henry is the apple of my eye. Who knows what kind of family that adopted one came from? He's always so calculating! He's probably just like his biological parents!" I wiped my hands dry on the apron and walked into the living room. "Dad." Dad looked up at me and told the person on the other end to wait for a moment. He then covered the phone and asked, "What's the matter?" "What if I told you I'm your biological son?" "Have you lost your mind?" I gathered the courage to speak up. "W-what if the paternity test back then was wrong, Dad?" Dad immediately hung up the phone and sat up straight. "You pulled this when you were a kid, and now that you're 18 years old, you're still bringing it up? You bring this up every few years. Don't you ever get tired of it? Do you think saying these things will somehow turn you into my biological son? "You're not worthy of it, Julian—not even if you get perfect grades and not even if you do everything you can to win me over. You're simply not my biological son! Do you get that, Julian?" I froze in place, standing there in a daze. "You'd better get this straight, Julian—Henry is my one and only son. You're not my son, and you'll never be!" I finally remembered now. I was always upset about it when I was a kid. I would keep asking Dad if there had been a mistake and if I was actually his biological son. Dad and I clearly looked so much alike—we had the same dimples. Mom and I looked a lot like each other, too. We both liked cilantro, which might have been something we inherited through our genes. Henry, meanwhile, felt nauseated as soon as he smelled it. Back then, I grabbed Dad's hand and asked, "What if I'm your biological son, Dad?" Dad forcefully shoved me away after hearing that. I hit my forehead on the coffee table, and blood trickled down my face. Dad didn't seem worried at all. He just snapped, "You ungrateful brat! Do you think you can take Henry's place now?" I was left with a permanent scar on my forehead after that incident. Dad even pointed right at me and said, "You were ugly to begin with, and now that scar makes you look even worse. Henry is so much better-looking than you." I snapped back to my senses and noticed that Dad's gaze was filled with disgust as he looked at me. I fought to keep my emotions in check, pursed my lips, and turned away to return to my room. I had a dream that night that I had never been trafficked and that there had been no mistake with the paternity test. Dad patted my shoulder and lovingly called out to me, his voice brimming with pride. I could see perfectly with both of my eyes. I could see Dad smiling sincerely at me. It was such a vivid scene that I could have sworn it had really happened, but then I suddenly woke up from my dream. I noticed a small damp patch on the pillow, puzzled as to when I had started crying in my dream. Those five days of waiting were pure torture. Every single day felt like a year. Around noon on Monday, one of Henry's friends came over. He pointed at me and asked, "Is that your brother? What happened to his eye, Henry?" Henry replied indifferently, "There's something wrong with his eye, so stop gawking at him." Dad came out carrying a plate of fruit. He heard their conversation and added, "Julian brought this on himself. He's been blind in that eye for quite some time now, so you don't have to worry about it." I forced myself to keep a straight face and nodded slightly. On Tuesday night, Mom finally returned from her business trip. She brought Henry lots of presents, including a new tablet, a limited-edition collectible figure, and a set of expensive sports equipment. I stood in the corner, watching them enjoy their time together as a family. I felt my eyes stinging with unshed tears and a lump in my throat. I hurriedly lowered my head, worried that they'd notice my miserable state. Dad glanced at me and asked, "What are you standing there for? Go clean Henry's room and do the laundry he left lying around." I practically bolted into my room, gritting my teeth as I fought back tears. On Wednesday—Henry's birthday—numerous guests arrived, making the place bustling and lively. There were plenty of birthday gifts stacked all around the living room. Dad walked out carrying a birthday cake with "Happy Birthday, Henry! Here's to a Bright Future!" written in chocolate across the surface. Henry's classmates crowded around him, singing the birthday song together. Dad held up his phone to record the whole scene, grinning from ear to ear. I stood in the kitchen doorway with soapy water still dripping from my hands. They didn't even bother to call me over. It was my birthday too, yet not a single person mentioned it. On Thursday morning, Henry went to participate in the public speaking competition. I was the one who edited his speech—or rather, I wrote it. He threw out his original draft and had me do a complete rewrite for him. I had been working on it until 2:00 am just two days ago. Dad was seated in the front row, holding up his phone to film the whole thing. I could see his face clearly in the glow from his phone screen—his eyes were brimming with tears as a smile spread across his face. Henry took first place in the competition. Dad shared Henry's photo in the family group chat. In the photo, Henry held up his trophy, beaming with pride. Dad followed up with a message after that. "Henry's a chip off the old block! He's wonderful!" Everyone in the family group chat responded with thumbs-up emojis and praised Henry, while my name was never once mentioned. Finally, it was Friday. I stood outside the paternity testing center's glass door, my palms slick with sweat. The receptionist handed me a manila envelope. I took out the two pages and looked at the last line. "The results support a biological father-son relationship between samples A and B, with a paternity probability of 99.9999%."