My Billionaire Parents Let Me Starve

On my tenth birthday, just because I had spent a single five-dollar bill, my father dragged me down the pavement by my wrist, forcing me to beg on my knees.

Beg the cashier to give our money back!

Tears instantly spilled over my lashes, but he didn't give me a chance to struggle. That was how I was forced to crawl on my bruised knees from the corner gas station where Id bought a cheap cupcake, all the way down the block to the dollar store where Id bought a plastic pen.

I had to return everything, piece by piece, just to get that crumpled five-dollar bill back.

A crowd had gathered. They pointed and whispered. The heat of humiliation rushed to my face, turning my cheeks a violent crimson before draining away, leaving me sickly pale.

When we finally got back to our cramped, drafty basement apartment, Dad pulled out his phone, his face an emotionless mask, and opened his banking app. He shoved the screen in my face. "Read it. How much is in there?"

I gritted my teeth, my voice trembling. "Eight... eight dollars and forty-two cents."

That was when his temper finally shattered. He threw the phone onto the ratty sofa and looked at me with a grief so profound it made my chest ache.

"Do you have any idea how long it takes your mother and me to save five dollars? Sammy, you have disappointed me more than words can say!" He pointed a shaking finger at me. "We are poor. We have nothing! Burn that into your memory!"

I sobbed, choking on my own tears, promising over and over that I understood, that I would never spend another dime as long as I lived.

The next day, I threw up blood in the school bathroom.

The school nurse asked if I wanted her to call an ambulance. I clutched the blood-soaked paper towels in my trembling fists and swallowed hard, shaking my head.

"No. We can't," I rasped. "My family doesn't have any money."

The nurse frowned, her hand freezing over the medical cabinet.

"You can't just ignore this, Sammy. If I'm not mistaken, this is the fifth time you've vomited blood this month."

I sat on the edge of the examination bed, the crinkling paper loud in the quiet room. My face was whiter than my faded, oversized school uniform. It took me a long time to force the words past the lump in my throat.

"Is it... is it really bad?" I twisted my thin fingers together in my lap. "Would it cost a lot of money to fix?"

She thought for a moment, her expression softening. "It shouldn't. The school has a basic insurance policy for students. If we just send you to the urgent care clinic down the street for some tests, the most you'd pay is a co-pay."

A flicker of hope lit up my eyes, but then she kept talking.

"It's just fifty dollars."

The light inside me snuffed out instantly. I licked my cracked lips, tasting copper. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

Fifty dollars...

Where would my family get that kind of money? We couldn't even afford a five-dollar birthday cupcake. I couldn't afford to be sick.

Seeing my silence, the nurse sighed. "Let me go to the back room and get you some over-the-counter pain medication. It's twelve dollars."

She turned and disappeared into the supply closet.

I pressed my lips together. I shoved my hand into my empty pocket, feeling nothing but lint. Then, clutching my violently cramping stomach, I ran.

Let it hurt. It didn't matter. I just had to grit my teeth and bear it. Twelve dollars was an impossible fortune for my parents.

But the moment I burst out of the clinic doors, I collided with my homeroom teacher, Mr. Evansthe one who had carried me to the nurse in the first place.

"Still hurting, kiddo? What did the nurse say? Do you want me to call your folks to take you to a real hospital?"

The rapid-fire concern made my chest tight. I couldn't even look him in the eye.

"I'm fine, Mr. Evans. Please, don't call my parents. They work so hard, they're so busy. Please."

I forced the brightest, most convincing smile I could muster. Under the hem of my jacket, I pinched my own thigh so hard that the sheer spike of pain forced some color back into my cheeks.

He studied me for a long, heavy moment.

"Alright. You're looking a bit better. Head back to class if you're up for it."

I exhaled a shaky breath of relief and hurried back to my desk. Halfway through third period, I coughed up a few more mouthfuls of blood. I quietly spat them into tissues, folded them tight, and shoved them deep into the darkest corner of my desk cubby.

But God, my stomach hurt so much...

When the lunch bell rang, the other kids pulled out colorful thermoses and neatly packed bento boxes filled with warm food their parents had made.

I opened my faded plastic container, and the snickering began immediately.

"Stale bread again? Sammy, is that really all your parents feed you?"

I lowered my eyes, letting my eyelashes hide my burning shame. I didn't say a word.

But one of the boys wasn't satisfied. He reached out, roughly yanking the collar of my worn-out shirt, his lip curling in disgust. "His family is just white trash. Look at his clotheshe's swimming in them, and there's a hole in the back! Sammy the beggar!"

The boys huddled around his desk erupted into cruel laughter.

I snatched my collar out of his grip, my eyes red and stinging. "My mom and dad love me! Don't you dare talk about them!"

They were just winding up to shove me when Mr. Evans walked into the room, freezing them in their tracks. He took one look at the dry, unbuttered heel of bread in my container and let out a long, heavy sigh.

Without a word, he walked over, opened his own lunch, and scooped half of his warm chicken casserole into my box. "Eat up, Sammy. Tell your folks to pack you some real protein tomorrow."

Tears breached my defenses, spilling down my cheeks.

But plain bread is the best we have, I wanted to say. Mom and Dad don't even let themselves eat this much.

When I was younger and didn't know any better, I used to cry and complain about eating stale bread. I remembered the day Dad, with bloodshot eyes, dragged me into their cramped bedroom.

He had pulled a moldy crust of a baguette from a drawer and threw it at my feet.

"You think we eat well while you suffer?" he had yelled. "Sammy, do you have any idea what your mother and I sacrifice just to keep you alive?"

I had stared at the fuzzy, green-spotted bread on the floor in pure shock. "Dad..."

Mom had stood in the corner, wiping away quiet tears. "Sammy, don't compare yourself to those rich kids. We are giving you the absolute best of what we can afford."

I had dropped to my knees, picked up the moldy bread, and slapped my own arm in punishment, sobbing out an apology.

I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry, Dad. Sammy won't be a brat anymore.

From now on, I'll only eat half of my bread. You can have the rest.

Now, sitting in the classroom, I looked at the rich, warm food Mr. Evans had given me. When no one was looking, I carefully snapped the lid shut over the casserole. Mom and Dad worked so incredibly hard. I was going to take it home for them.

Smiling to myself, I tucked the container into my backpack. Then, I picked up my half-eaten, dry slice of bread.

A fresh cough bubbled up, and the blood painted the white crust red.

I ignored it. Fighting through the agonizing spasms in my gut, I chewed the bloody bread and swallowed it, piece by piece.

When I got back to our basement apartment after school, I carefully took out the Tupperware of warm food.

"Look, Dad! I saved this just for you!" I beamed. "You've been working so hard today."

Dad collected scrap metal for a living. He was up before dawn every single day, pushing a rusty cart through the alleys. I knew his bones ached.

He froze, staring at the food in my hands, hesitating to take it.

"Dad?"

I quickly grabbed a chipped mug and poured him some tap water, figuring he was just exhausted from the grind.

He finally snapped out of his daze. "Thank you, Sammy. You're such a good boy."

As if rewarding me, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a single piece of hard butterscotch candy in a shiny wrapper. "I saved up my spare change all week to buy you this."

He patted my shoulder. "You have to stay thrifty, kiddo. Don't let our sacrifices go to waste. Study hard, get a good job, and one day you can buy us a big house."

I took the candy and unwrapped it. It was so sweet. I nodded fiercely. "I will, Dad. I promise I won't let you down."

He turned away, looking satisfied. But the moment his back was turned, a vicious cramp seized my stomach, and a whimpering gasp slipped through my lips before I could stop it.

He paused halfway to the kitchen. "What was that?"

I bit down on my tongue until I tasted copper. "Nothing, Dad! You heard wrong."

He mumbled an "okay" and walked away.

I let out a shaky breath, using the wall to support my weight as I dragged myself toward the cramped laundry nook where my mattress lay on the concrete floor. There were spiderwebs in the corners. I was terrified of spiders, but I just pulled the thin blanket tightly over my head so I wouldn't have to see them.

The next morning, I didn't wake up on my own. I was violently yanked off the mattress by Mom.

Before my eyes could even focus, her screaming assault hit my ears.

"Sammy!" She looked at me with an expression of sheer disgust. "Your father and I might be dirt poor, but we have our dignity! And you? You steal from your classmates?!"

I froze, the sleep instantly banished from my brain.

Dad was standing behind her, shaking his head with bitter disappointment. "How did we raise a thief?"

"No! I didn't!" I scrambled back, waving my hands frantically.

But Mom aggressively flipped the pocket of my uniform jacket inside out. A crisp hundred-dollar bill fluttered to the ground. "I found this hidden in your jacket! Don't you dare lie to my face!"

My eyes widened so far they hurt. Panic clawed up my throat.

"I didn't steal it..."

A hundred dollars? I had never even seen a hundred-dollar bill up close. How would I ever have the guts to steal one?

"I don't know how it got in there!" I sobbed, crawling toward them. "Please, you have to believe me!"

Dad just shook his head, looking utterly defeated.

"It was in your pocket. We have to take it back to the school and pay restitution to whoever you took it from." He let out a long, ragged breath. "Starting tonight, I'm not sleeping. I'll take on a third graveyard shift at the recycling plant."

I looked at him with sheer heartbreak as he delivered the final blow. "This is the price of your mistakes, Sammy. Remember what your mother and I have to endure because of you."

They didn't listen to another word of my desperate apologies. They just turned around and walked out the door.

"Cough! Cough..."

A massive wave of blood violently spewed from my mouth, splattering across my thin blanket. Terrified they would hear, I clamped both hands over my mouth, forcing myself to swallow the rest of the thick, coppery liquid back down.

I sat on the cold concrete, crying until my ribs ached.

I couldn't understand how the money got into my pocket. All I knew was that because of me, my parents were going to suffer even more.

No.

I curled my trembling hands into fists. I have to make my own money. I have to pay for my own doctor, and I have to help them. I can't be a burden anymore!

With a sudden burst of desperate energy, I scrambled up. I skipped school and wandered toward the commercial district to look for a job.

But every time I walked into a diner or a hardware store and begged to sweep floors, the managers just scowled and shooed me out.

"You're a kid, for Christ's sake! Get out of here before I call child services. You're scaring the customers!"

Clutching my stomach, which felt like it was being twisted by rusted knives, I was chased from block to block. No one wanted me.

"I didn't know making money was this hard..."

When my legs finally gave out, I collapsed against the brick wall of an alleyway. I hugged my knees, weeping, my heart aching for how hard Mom and Dad had to work every single day.

Why does it hurt so much?! I thought, pounding my fist weakly against my own chest. Why did I have to get sick? Why did that stupid hundred dollars have to be in my pocket?!

"Hey there, sweetie."

A middle-aged woman with kind eyes suddenly crouched down in front of me. "Are you looking to make some cash?"

My dull eyes sparked to life. "Can you give me a job, ma'am?"

She smiled warmly. "Of course I can. Come with me."

I pushed myself up off the ground, gripping her hand like a lifeline. As long as I could help Mom and Dad, I didn't care how hard the work was!

But... the pain in my stomach was reaching a crescendo.

The woman led me to an idling gray van and pulled me inside. The moment the doors slammed shut, my body convulsed, and I violently retched a mouthful of pitch-black blood all over the rubber floor mats.

"Jesus Christ, this kid looks like he's seconds from dying!" a man in the driver's seat barked. "The buyers aren't gonna pay for a terminal liability!"

The kind woman's face instantly hardened into a sneer. I desperately tried to wipe my mouth on my sleeve. "I'm not sick! I swear!"

She just glared at me. Without a word, she shoved the sliding door open and violently kicked me out of the moving van, leaving me tumbling into the dirt on the side of a deserted suburban highway.

I lay in the gravel, stunned. I tried to crawl after the fading taillights, but my arms gave out.

Another violent cough wracked my frail body, painting the pavement red. I collapsed, my cheek pressed against the cold asphalt.

"Don't go..." I reached a trembling, blood-stained hand toward the empty road. "I need to make money... for my Mom and Dad..."

My eyelids were so heavy. They felt like they were made of lead.

I just want to sleep. Just a quick nap, and then I'll find another job.

"Just five minutes, Sammy," I whispered to the empty air.

And then, I closed my eyes for good.

When I woke up, the sun had set.

Oddly enough, my body didn't hurt anymore. The twisting knives in my stomach were entirely gone. I didn't think too much about it. I just stood up and started running in the direction of home.

But I didn't know where I was, so I just aimlessly followed the shoulder of the road.

"Mr. Carmichael, the Michelin chef you flew in has everything prepped at the restaurant. Shall we head over?"

"Yes, let's go."

I heard the deep, commanding voice and spun around instinctively.

"Dad?"

But as soon as the word left my mouth, I shook my head. No, the man stepping into the sleek black Maybach parked near the curb was wearing a tailored Italian suit. He looked like a billionaire. He just happened to sound exactly like my dad.

I rubbed my eyes and started walking again.

But then the world blinked, pitching into a dizzying black void, and when my vision cleared, I was somehow sitting in the back seat of that very Maybach, right next to the wealthy stranger.

I stared, my mind short-circuiting.

The man in the suit... his face was an exact replica of my father's.

Up front, the chauffeur glanced in the rearview mirror and sighed. "Sir, forgive me for overstepping, but how much longer is this charade going to last? When are you going to bring young Samuel home?"

Young Samuel?

Was he talking about me?

I didn't understand. I just sat there, invisible, staring blankly at the back of the driver's head.

"After he graduates high school, maybe," the wealthy man sighed, adjusting his silk tie. "Our educational method is working perfectly. Look at how resilient and frugal Sammy has become. He's ten times the man Tyler is."

Tyler? Who is Tyler?

A few minutes later, the Maybach pulled up to the valet of a stunning, palatial restaurant with crystal chandeliersthe kind of place I would have been too scared to even walk past.

"Darling."

I followed the man's gaze and felt my breath hitch. My pupils dilated in sheer shock.

It was Mom.

She was wearing an elegant evening gown, her hair perfectly styled. So... these impossibly rich people really were my parents?

But how? How was that even possible? We couldn't even afford fifty dollars for a doctor!

Just then, a teenage boy wearing a designer blazer ran up and threw his arms around Dad.

They were escorted into a massive, private VIP dining room. A dozen waiters in immaculate uniforms hovered nearby, carrying silver trays.

Plates of food that looked like art were set down on the white linen table. I stared, my mouth hanging open.

There was so much meat. Steaks that sizzled on hot stones, roasted duck, and massive red things with giant claws that I'd only ever seen in library books.

Dad pointed a fork at the teenager. "Eat up. Your little brother would kill for a meal like this. Count your blessings, Tyler. I've finalized your transfer to that private academy in Switzerland. You fly out in three days."

Brother?

I whipped my head around to stare at the teenager. I had a brother? Since when did I have an older brother?

Tyler rolled his eyes, shoving a massive piece of buttery lobster tail into his mouth. "Seriously, how long are you two going to keep playing dress-up? I'm just glad I'm not Sammy. It's practically child abuse."

He washed the food down with a sip of sparkling water. "We literally own half the real estate in the city. Carmichael Industries is worth billions. Yet you make him live in a rat-infested basement and eat garbage. I don't get it."

Dad scowled, setting his knife down sharply.

"It is to forge his character! Growing up in absolute poverty is the only way to build an unbreakable will. Not like you, who whines when the Wi-Fi drops. Look at how responsible Sammy is."

Mom, dripping in diamonds that caught the chandelier light and blinded me, nodded in agreement, delicately slicing her wagyu beef.

"He's obedient, yes, but his psychological fortitude is still too weak. I mean, look at yesterday. He found a hundred-dollar bill in his pocket. If he had any real grit, he would have dragged us to the school to confront his classmates and demand an investigation. Then he would've realized I was testing him."

She took a slow, satisfied bite of her steak.

"Instead, he just panicked and cried. How can I trust him to take over a multibillion-dollar empire one day if he crumbles over a hundred bucks? No. Your father and I need to keep him in the slums to break him down and build him back up properly."

My gaze locked onto her face. The room started spinning. A deafening ringing filled my ears, drowning out the clinking of crystal glasses.

Fake...

Our poverty was fake. My family was filthy rich. That hundred dollars... they planted it to frame me.

"No... no, that's not true... it can't be true!"

I lunged at my father, trying to grab his lapels to scream in his face, but my hands just phased right through his chest like smoke.

"What's happening?" I stumbled backward, falling onto the plush carpet.

And then, as I stared at my translucent, glowing hands, the realization crashed down on me, crushing my soul.

I began to wail.

"I'm dead... I'm really dead."

For as long as they sat there eating, I sat on the floor, screaming and crying.

I screamed until my phantom throat felt raw. I demanded to know why they lied to me! Why did we have all the money in the world, yet they let me be tortured and humiliated over pennies?!

But they didn't hear a single word of my agony.

I listened to the waiters describe the dishes. Truffle risotto, beluga caviar, venison medallions. Words I didn't even know how to spell, let alone taste.

After they finished their coffee, Dad wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and looked at Mom.

"Let's just sleep at the main estate tonight. My back is killing me from that basement cot. Sammy thinks we're pulling a double shift at the recycling plant anyway."

Mom nodded elegantly. "Perfect. We can use our 'exhaustion' tomorrow morning to teach him another lesson about sacrifice."

The three of them walked out, laughing and joking, and climbed into the Maybach.

I sat in the very back, watching their happy, smiling faces through a waterfall of tears.

The car drove for an hour before pulling through the wrought-iron gates of an estate so vast it looked like a castle. I floated out of the car, staring numbly as they walked through the grand mahogany doors.

It was massive. It was beautiful.

There were no gray concrete floors. No spiderwebs. No roaches scurrying under the fridge. The marble floors here were cleaner than my bedsheets back in the basement.

I drifted through the foyer and stopped dead. Hanging above the grand staircase was a massive oil painting. It was a family portrait. And there I wasa baby in my mother's arms.

So this was where I belonged. This was my real home.

A fleet of housekeepers rushed forward to take their coats, hand them warm towels, and offer them slippers. One maid prepared a hot footbath for my dad, while an esthetician applied a gold-leaf face mask to my mom's skin.

I let out a broken, bitter laugh. My vision blurred.

So this was how they lived, completely out of my sight.

All while I was curled up under a thin sheet, praying the spiders wouldn't crawl on my face, paralyzed by anxiety every single night.

I was such an idiot.

I dragged my dying, cancer-ridden body through the streets, begging for work just so I could ease their burden.

If I had actually managed to earn a few dollars, they probably would have just stepped on the dirty bills with their five-thousand-dollar Italian leather shoes.

I was so desperate to save half a portion of cafeteria casserole for them. The food they were eating tonight... I couldn't even imagine it in my wildest dreams.

I followed them up to the master bedroom. The massive king-sized bed looked like a cloud. The marble shower was bigger than our entire slum apartment.

I see.

On those nights when I sat on my floor mattress, crying tears of guilt because I thought they were out breaking their backs for me...

On those nights when my stomach acid burned holes inside me, and I couldn't sleep because we couldn't afford a twelve-dollar bottle of pills...

They were here. Enjoying paradise.

I sat in the corner of their lavish bedroom and silently cried until the sun came up.

The next morning, they got back into the Maybach, but had the chauffeur park three blocks away from the slum neighborhood.

"Stop here. We can't risk him seeing the car," Dad ordered.

He stripped off his bespoke suit, changing into stained, oversized work clothes, instantly transforming back into a beaten-down, working-class man.

Mom messed up her perfect blowout and tied a faded, stained apron around her waist.

They unlocked the basement door and stepped inside.

"Sammy?" Dad called out, tossing a plastic bag with a cold, generic-brand muffin onto the rickety table. "Dad's off his shift. Brought you breakfast."

Silence.

He frowned. Mom nudged him. "Look at the time, David. He already left for school."

"Ah, right." Dad walked over to the counter, opened the Tupperware container of the chicken casserole I had proudly saved for him, and looked at it with sheer disgust.

Without a second thought, he scraped it directly into the garbage disposal and turned on the faucet.

Just then, Mom's phone rang. It was Mr. Evans.

She put it on speakerphone. "Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael? First period is already over. I was just wondering why Sammy hasn't shown up to class today?"

Both of them froze. "He's not at school?!"

Sensing the rising panic, Mr. Evans's voice grew tight. "Sammy has thrown up blood in class several times recently. You don't think he collapsed on his way to school, do you?"

Mom and Dad locked eyes, the color draining from their faces.

They bolted for the door, but the moment Dad yanked it open, he froze in his tracks.

Standing on the cracked concrete porch were two police officers.

The lead officer looked at them with a grim expression. "We found a body on the side of Highway 9 this morning."

He held up a glossy photograph, his eyes locked onto my parents.

"Is this your son?"