My Billionaire Parents Raised Me Poor

New Years Eve. For the third year in a row, my parents had left me alone in the house, chasing that sweet triple-time pay.

Thinking about the last twenty years of quiet, solitary holidays, I couldn't bear the thought of another cold night alone. I packed up a container of homemade lasagna and set out to find them.

I didnt expect to see them, the couple who always preached about saving every dime, stepping out of a black Range Rover, laughing and hand-in-hand with a girl my age, before disappearing into the gilded entrance of The Grand Metropolitan.

Mom, Dad, is it really okay to leave Dec alone at home? the girl, radiant and oblivious, asked.

My mother, Caroline, barely glanced up, her voice light and dismissive. Its fine. Hes used to it.

My father, Robert, scoffed good-naturedly. He cant compare to you, Scarlett. Youre our star, our heart.

I turned and walked away, the lasagna suddenly heavy in my hands. They were rich. They had been lying to me, pretending poverty to justify their neglect. I no longer wanted their company.

Back at our cramped, old duplex, I dumped the expensive meal I had planned to share into the trash.

In the past, I would never have dared to waste food.

For as long as I could remember, I understood that we were struggling. Everything I had, my parents claimed, came from their backbreaking sacrifice. I rarely owned anything new.

Every few months, my mother would bring home a trash bag of used clothes. These belonged to a colleagues son, shed insist. Theyre perfectly clean, Dec. No need to waste money on new things.

My entire childhood was spent dragging around ill-fitting, faded clothes. Kids at school called me "The Rag Man." It pushed me to bury myself in books, clinging to the hope that one day, I could earn enough to buy a brand-new t-shirt.

On holidays, I dutifully handed over every dollar of gift money I received, believing I was easing their burden.

But there was no burden.

I looked up the Range Rovers license plate. It was registered to Holloway Enterprises. I recognized the company; its heiress, Scarlett Holloway, was often in the gossip columns. I even recalled a story about her driving that very car while on a date with a C-list actor. The face in those old tabloid photos was the girl Id just seen.

I was a Holloway. I was a millionaire's son.

The realization was a punch to the gut, followed by a rush of cold, bitter laughter. I wiped my eyes and went straight to my parents room.

Perhaps they were so arrogant in their deception, so certain of my naive loyalty, that they grew careless.

I found it quickly. A contract, hundreds of millions of dollars on the dotted line, signed by Robert Holloway. Tucked inside the papers was a Montblanc pen, not a cheap giveaway, but a piece of serious luxury. The last vestige of hope shriveled up and died inside me.

I restored everything exactly as it was, returned to my room, and pulled the covers over my head. I prayed that I would wake up and discover it had all been a terrible nightmare.

The next morning, Mom and Dad were already busy in the tiny kitchen.

I watched them, then looked at the breakfast laid out on the table. Who eats Smoked Salmon and Caviar Benedict on a weekday morning?

The aromarich, buttery, and utterly decadentwas identical to a dish my professor had treated us to at a high-end brunch spot last semester.

I glanced at the overflowing trash can near the back door. Sure enough, high-end packaging confirmed my suspicion.

Mom, Dad, did we suddenly win the lottery?

My mothers face registered a flicker of panic. Dec, what are you talking about?

The breakfast. Thats seriously expensive. How can we afford this?

I pointed at the trash bag, and my mothers color drained.

My father offered a breezy chuckle. Its nothing, son. I was running an errand for the boss last night, and he gave me a massive takeout order. I didnt have the heart to eat it alone, so I brought it home for us.

Your mother and I couldn't afford this with our combined weekly pay!

I nodded, pretending to believe the lie. I ate the exquisite breakfast, my mind a churning mess. Smoked Salmon Benedict, I thought, sixty dollars a plate. Last nights dinner likely cost more than my entire semesters tuition.

If they were truly poor, this meal would taste like love. Now, it tasted like ash.

I finished two bites and pushed the plate away.

Im full.

Dec, thats hardly anything. Are you feeling sick? My mothers concern looked real, and it almost broke me.

I shook my head, managing a smile. No, Im great. Arent we going to see Grandma and Grandpa later? Im saving room for a good lunch!

At that, my mother visibly relaxed. My fathers face was etched with guilt, but before he could speak, his phone rang.

I saw the caller ID: My Little Girl, Scarlett.

Scarlett, his heart. And me?

Dad quickly retreated to the balcony. Mom followed, and I could faintly hear her whispering about being discreet, about not letting me find out.

A profound, bone-deep chill settled in my heart. They hadn't just accidentally kept a secret; they had conspired, together, to maintain the fiction. I felt like an actor trapped in The Truman Show.

But they were devastatingly real.

After hanging up, Dad came back into the living room and pulled a crisp $50 bill from his wallet. Dec, I have a last-minute emergency at work. I have to go in.

Mom stepped up. Its okay, honey. Ill take you to the Pierces.

I nodded, took the $50, and stuffed it directly into the pocket of my jeans. Then I got ready to leave with Mom.

When we arrived at the Pierces' old, run-down apartment in the industrial section of the city, my grandfather immediately pulled me into a hug. Dec! Come in, you look frozen!

His hands, when they gripped my arm, were soft and smooth. Not the calloused hands of a retired steel factory worker, which is what they claimed he was. He looked well-fed, well-rested, and entirely too pampered.

Grandma, seeing me, quickly handed me a red envelope. Happy New Year, sweetheart.

I took it, thanked her, and put it straight into my pocket. My mother froze. In the past, I would immediately hand the money over to her. Shed always coo, "Dec is such a good, responsible boy."

This time, I defied the ritual. Grandma paused, then chuckled. Oh, our Dec knows how to squirrel away his cash now!

I raised an eyebrow and smiled. Its not squirming, Grandma. Mom said a new year means a new start. I figured I'd keep some of my own spending money.

Thats right, Mom jumped in quickly. Dec is so responsible. He even pays his own tuition and living expenses from his part-time jobs.

I knew the red envelope probably contained fifty bucks, max. Compared to my massive student loan debt and the money I earned tutoring to survive, it was a joke.

They were so obscenely wealthy, yet they maintained this Performance of Poverty only for me. I couldnt understand why I was the only one subjected to this cruel education.

Grandma didnt press it. She retreated to the kitchen. The food she brought outthe roast, the perfectly formed sideslooked exactly like the dishes I had glimpsed on the buffet line at The Grand Metropolitan the night before. I took two bites and lost my appetite completely.

I was certain now. The entire family, from my parents to my grandparents, were rich, and they were all performing an elaborate lie.

After lunch, Mom got a hushed phone call and then announced she had to go to work. The grandparents suddenly started yawning, claiming they were exhausted. I took my cue, politely excused myself, and left.

But I didn't go far. I circled back and hid behind a large oak tree around the corner.

Sure enough, less than twenty minutes later, a stretched Lincoln Town Car pulled up. Grandpa and Grandma, looking energized and impeccably dressed, were ushered into the luxury vehicle by an entourage, without a backward glance.

I took a deep breath, pulled up my hood, and walked towards the apartment. A few cleaning ladies were already starting the tear-down.

One of them sighed to the other. I dont get these people. They come here one day a year, cook one meal, and leave.

And they pay a fortune for the cleanup, the second one replied.

Oh, you dont know the half of it. Theyve been doing this for twenty years. They own a mansion up in Blackwood Heights. This is just rich people role-playing.

My heart turned to granite. Role-playing.

Blackwood Heights. I knew the nameit was where the citys elite lived. I rode my beat-up cruiser bike until I reached the guarded gates.

The mansion sat on the highest ridge, a fortress of glass and white marble. Security guards patrolled the perimeter. I must have looked like a stray dog; one guard immediately barked, Hey! Beat it, kid! Youre not allowed here!

I was about to turn away when a blur of sound and chrome roared past me. I recognized the modela limited edition Ducati, nearly two hundred thousand dollars. Riding it was Scarlett Holloway.

She noticed me, too. She slammed the brakes and eyed me, a sneering look of amusement crossing her face. Well, look at you. Not so slow after all. You managed to find your way here.

I froze. She knew. She had known all along.

Why? I whispered, the word hollow. What is this? Am I adopted? Is this some sort of psychological project, and Im the test subject?

Scarlett shook her head, a wicked smile playing on her lips. No, Dec. Youre theirs. Biologically. You want to know why you were raised in that dump? Because I am the sole heir of Holloway Enterprises.

She revved her engine, the sound ripping through the silence. This isnt your place. Go home.

She leaned down, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. And dont look so pathetic. Mom and Dad did put a lot of heart into raising you. Oh, and one more thing: stop going to see the Pierces. Theyre getting too old to keep up the performance.

Scarlett sped through the gate. I stood there, watching the taillights disappear, finally understanding the true dynamic. My existence threatened her claim to the inheritance.

What had I done wrong? All I ever wanted was a genuine, non-monetary, honest love.

They had lied for two decades, yet somewhere in that lie, I knew they had cared for me. But now, looking at the mansion and hearing Scarletts cold, cruel words, I questioned every shared moment.

I turned and walked away.

Before I reached the main road, I called my father. Dad? Are you coming home for dinner tonight?

His voice was strained but insistent. No, Dec. Triple pay, remember? Im working late tonight. Your mom is, too.

But cutting through his words, faint yet undeniable, was the distant roar of a high-performance engine.

I simply said, Got it. My mind was already made up.

I went back to the old duplex and started packing. I also emailed the faculty advisor for the universitys special research granta three-year, fully isolated deep-field project out in remote Montana. No contact, no interruptions.

When I was done, I printed the photo Id secretly taken of Scarletts retreating back, framed it, and placed it on my nightstand. A silent declaration.

That night, they didnt come home. The house was mine.

I called Dad one last time, but it went straight to voicemail.

At that exact moment, I saw a flurry of activity on social media. Employees of Holloway Enterprises were posting photos, thanking their bosses for massive holiday bonuses. One employee, who described himself as mid-level, showed off a three-thousand-dollar check.

Other photos showed the companys New Years gala. My parents were on stage, my dad in a custom tuxedo, my mom in an elegant gown, looking impossibly regal. Scarlett was basking in the limelight below.

The family portrait was prominently displayedonly three people in it.

My parents were certain I was too busy working to pay attention to gossip. They forgot I was just a kid, raised to be poor, which meant I was hyper-aware of everything around me, including the internet.

A reporter interviewed them about their holiday plans.

My father, looking directly into the camera, said, Our daughter, Scarlett, turns twenty-two this year. Were taking her on an extended luxury trip starting tonight.

My stomach plummeted. I was twenty-two, too. The farthest Id ever been was a school field trip to the local zoo.

I let out a harsh, dry laugh. I retrieved my birth certificate, running my fingers over the paper. When I started college, my parents had insisted on moving my registration to the school. They claimed I was an adult now and needed to be responsible for my own affairs.

Now, that small bureaucratic action was my ticket out.

I grabbed my duffel bag and walked out.

Robert, Caroline. Goodbye.