From the earliest moments he could remember, Marcus Langenfeld knew, with an aching certainty, that he was unwanted. His mother, Irina, never tried to hide the disdain she felt for him, treating him less like a son and more like an inconvenient presence. While she showered affection on his younger brother, Stefan, Marcus was left to navigate a world of cold words and even colder meals. If Stefan received praise and comfort, Marcus grew accustomed to silence and sharp reprimands.
At seventeen, Irina’s bitterness finally found its voice, taking a form as harsh as it was final. “You’re old enough to fend for yourself,” she said one night, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, her gaze hard as stone. “This house is not yours. Stefan needs space. Go make your own way in the world.”
Those words were a quiet death to Marcus’s heart. He left that very night, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a soul heavy with the weight of abandonment. He slept in dingy hostels, scraped by with odd jobs on construction sites, and spent sleepless nights studying, driven by an insatiable hunger to prove himself. Every insult, every slammed door, every time he went to bed hungry or soaked from the rain, became fuel for the fire of his ambition. He worked through exhaustion, humiliation, and loneliness, determined to carve out something for himself that no one could ever take away.
Years passed, and by the time Marcus was twenty-five, his tireless efforts had paid off. He was the proud owner of a booming construction company in Rotterdam. He had a beautiful wife, Amalia, a woman whose quiet strength and kindness had become his anchor in the storm. Together, they built not just a home, but a life filled with warmth, laughter, and children who would never have to fight for their mother’s love.
Meanwhile, Irina’s world continued to crumble. Stefan, her cherished son, wasted every opportunity given to him. He drank heavily, squandered money, and lived off the meager savings his mother could still provide. The small apartment they shared in Dresden had become a grim reflection of their lives: peeling wallpaper, stacks of unpaid bills, and the echoes of decisions made long ago, ones that had led them both to this sorry state.
Then, one autumn afternoon, everything changed. Irina and Stefan appeared uninvited at Marcus’s doorstep. The air inside his home was rich with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and pinewood polish, a stark contrast to the cold, damp world they had come from. Amalia, as always, greeted them with warmth, offering pastries and tea. But Irina’s eyes were immediately drawn to the high ceilings and the polished floors, the obvious symbols of Marcus’s success.
“You’ve done well,” she said, her voice soft, though it carried a tinge of something else—something like regret. Then she added, “But Stefan has nothing. You should give him a house like this. He’s your brother.”
Marcus froze, a bitter laugh escaping his lips—not out of humor, but disbelief. “Give him a house?” he echoed, his voice low and dangerous. “You threw me out on the street when I was seventeen. You didn’t care where I slept, whether I ate, whether I survived. And now you think I owe you—or him—anything?”
“Blood is blood,” Stefan muttered, his voice thick with resentment and drink.
Marcus’s expression hardened, his voice icy. “No, Stefan. Blood is only blood when love exists. You made sure there was none. Don’t think for a second that I’m obligated to you.”
Irina’s face flushed with anger. “Don’t speak to your mother like that,” she snapped, rising too quickly and stumbling, her frail body struggling to catch itself. For a brief moment, Marcus almost felt a pang of pity for her—but only for a moment. He stopped Amalia from helping Irina up, allowing the woman who had abandoned him to experience, however briefly, the consequences of her own choices.
Irina stood there, her pride shattered, as she realized that the son she had discarded was now a man beyond her reach—someone who had built a life she could never understand, let alone share.
After that day, Marcus severed all contact with his mother and brother. He poured himself into his work, his family, and the life he had worked so tirelessly to create. He became known for his integrity, for building schools and housing projects that served the community. But more than that, he built a life driven by purpose and not by revenge. Meanwhile, Irina lived out the years alone, with Stefan as her only companion—still drunk, still bitter, and still reliant on the woman who had enabled his ruin.
Time passed. Years, then decades, and the gap between them only grew. One day, Marcus was at a supermarket in Hamburg, his young daughter sitting in the cart, her dark hair bouncing as she giggled. His wife, Amalia, was beside him, pushing the cart filled with fresh produce and wine. Irina, alone and gaunt, stood nearby, her own cart barely holding a loaf of day-old bread.
“Marcus,” she called out, almost pleading. Her voice cracked with something like desperation.
Marcus turned, his eyes meeting hers briefly before he turned away without a word. He grasped Amalia’s hand firmly and walked out of the store, the sound of her voice echoing in the air behind them.
A few weeks later, they crossed paths again—this time at a clinic. Irina saw him holding a little girl in his arms, a child who looked just like him, her dark hair and eyes an unmistakable reflection of the man he had once been. “What a beautiful child,” Irina whispered, her voice fragile. “Tell me her name. I’m her grandmother.”
Marcus met her eyes with cold detachment. He said nothing. He merely turned and walked away, the little girl snuggling against him as if she knew exactly what he had lost.
The final time Irina saw him was through the window of a café in Lyon, where he sat laughing with his family, a picture of the peace she had never given him. She watched as he looked up, their eyes locking for a brief, painful moment. She raised a tentative hand, a feeble attempt at a greeting, but he looked away and kissed his daughter’s forehead, as though she had never existed.
That night, Irina sat alone in her small, dimly lit apartment, staring at Stefan, who lay drunk on the couch, oblivious to her pain. She whispered to the empty space around her, her voice barely a murmur, “I lost the best of my children.”
For once, she didn’t lie to herself. For once, Irina faced the truth. She had lost him, and it was entirely her fault.