You Cannot Apologize to His Ashes

Three years after my parents divorce, I ran into my sister while I was street performing.

She stepped out of a city patrol car, stopping dead in her tracks when she realized the guy desperately spitting fire for spare change on the corner was me.

She walked over, her steps stiff, unnatural.

You're a public nuisance, she said, her voice tight. "Pack it up. You're coming with me."

By the time they finished taking my statement at the precinct, my mother had arrived.

She paid my fine and slid a sleek black credit card across the cold table.

"Stop humiliating us," she said. "Take this, find a decent school, and try to do something with your life."

I didn't move a finger. When I spoke, my voice was a ruined, gravelly rasp.

"Where were you? When Dad and I needed you most... where the hell were you?"

My sharp tone made my sister's brow furrow.

"Things were complicated back then, Drew," Diana said, her voice dripping with that familiar, exhausting fatigue. "You don't need to dump all your bitterness on Mom."

My mothers face hardened. She took on that lecturing tone she always used when she wanted to play the authority figure.

"You're just as stubborn as your father," she said, her voice cold. "If you had just come with me, you wouldn't be begging on the streets. Go back and tell him: the second he admits he was wrong, I'll take you back as my son."

I stared at them, the words clawing at the back of my throat, tasting like ash.

Did they really not know?

Did they really not know that my father died three years ago?

My mother let her eyes drift over me, taking in my singed hair and the jagged, red scars climbing up my jawline. A flicker of something resembling pity crossed her face, but it was too fleeting to be real.

"If I had known it would turn out like this, I never would have let your father take you," she murmured. "Your suffering... it's all his fault."

My expression iced over.

"Ma'am, you have no right to comment on a stranger's life. If you have so much money to throw around, go donate it to a shelter."

She opened her mouth, about to snap, but the words died on her lips, leaving only a heavy, useless sigh.

A moment later, her phone buzzed.

The screen lit up with "My Little Prince".

Instantly, her eyes softened into a warmth she had never once shown me. She turned on her heel and walked away, never looking back.

Diana watched her retreating figure, then turned to me, her voice dropping to a low, frustrated whisper. "Stop doing this dangerous crap, Drew."

I ignored her, bending down to pick up my props one by one.

She stood by the door, watching me for a few silent beats, before she turned and walked out too.

The other people who had been swept up in the street sweep were slowly being released. One of them nudged me, curious.

"Do you know that cop?"

"Are you kidding?" someone else chimed in quickly. "Thats Sergeant Diana. Shes decoratedgot the three stripes on her shoulder and everything. Shes the oldest daughter of Cynthia, the real estate billionaire, and her first husband."

"I remember reading an interview with her," another added. "She said the only reason she joined the force was so she could grow up to protect her father and brother."

"Yeah, and Cynthia? When she wanted her husband and son to have her name, she walked away from her family's corporate empire just to start from scratch. She told the media her biggest regret was leaving them behind."

I let out a cold, hollow laugh, cutting them off.

"If she regretted it so much, why did she sign the divorce papers?"

They looked at me, eager to defend the fairy tale theyd bought into.

"If she didn't love them, why does Cynthia tear up every time she talks about them? Why is her profile picture still her sons old painting?"

"Exactly. And Sergeant Diana wears a lucky charm her brother made for her every time she goes on a raid. Everyone knows theyre haunted by the past."

I raised my eyes, my voice flat, deadened by the truth.

"Theyre haunted by a lie," I said. "She married her high school sweetheart on a sham certificate, refusing to legally register her biological son so he wouldn't interfere with her new trust fund. Her real son was left undocumented, unable to even register for his college exams. While her ex-husband worked five jobs and her son collected aluminum cans just to buy bread, she was throwing million-dollar birthday bashes for her lovers kid in a mansion."

"And the sister? She was brought back to the family estate, raised in silk and silver. But when her real dad came to the gates, desperate, she called him an embarrassment and had the guards throw him out, breaking his leg in the process. She watched her brother get tormented by her stepbrother at school every single day, did nothing, and even handed her brothers hard-earned scholarship over to the bully."

The room went entirely, suffocatingly quiet.

Someone gasped. "Are you..."

I swallowed the raw, metallic taste of old grief. "I'm Cynthia's son. Diana's brother."

Nobody said another word.

I pulled up my mask, hiding the jagged scars on my face, and walked out into the cold rain.

I used every cent I made that day to buy a bundle of white lilies and the cheapest, smallest chocolate cake from the grocery store.

I walked to the barren, wind-swept hillside on the edge of the county line.

I set up the crooked wooden marker that had been knocked over by the storm, wiping the damp soil off his name.

"Happy birthday, Dad."

I sliced the cake in half. The frosting, usually so sweet, tasted incredibly bitter.

"I saw Diana and Mom today," I whispered to the empty air. "They still think you're alive."

The next day, I went back to the corner to perform.

While I was spitting fire, a sudden gust of wind caught the kerosene mist. The flame leaped sideways, singeing the bangs of a boy passing by.

Before I could even apologize, a man lunged out of the crowd, slamming his heavy leather briefcase directly into my temple.

"You filthy street rat! You burned my son!"

The metal clasp of the bag sliced my brow. Blood started warm and thick down my cheek.

But I didn't feel it. I was staring at Lawrence.

He recognized me, too. His face contorted into pure disgust.

Hearing the commotion, Diana pushed her way through the crowd. Her face softened into instant, frantic concern as she checked Wesley's hair.

"Does it hurt, sweetie?" she asked, her voice entirely different from the one she used on me.

My mother stepped out from behind them, her eyes glaring at me with nothing but irritation.

"Apologize to them," she commanded. "Now. Before I lose my temper."

I wiped the blood from my eyes, a mocking laugh tearing from my throat.

"Does it matter if I apologize? You'll just do what you did three years agothreaten my dad's life until I crawl on my knees to beg their forgiveness."

Her face shifted. A fleeting, ugly shadow of guilt crossed her features.

She remembered.

She remembered exactly what she had done to us.

Back then, when she first broke away from her family's empire to start her own business, she took out massive loans from predatory lenders.

But her family blocked her at every turn. Her startup collapsed, and the interest on the debt spiraled out of control.

She stopped coming home.

My father, hearing my high school counselor say I had a shot at a full Ivy League scholarship, worked himself to the bone. He took five jobs so I could focus entirely on studying.

On the day I finished my final SAT prep exams, Dad bought a tiny cake to celebrate.

But when a knock came at the door, it wasn't Mom.

It was a squad of debt collectors.

They dragged my father away. When he finally crawled back days later, he was nothing but skin and bone, his forearms covered in bruises and track marks from forced clinical trials theyd used to squeeze out her debts.

He never complained. He just smiled at me, his eyes hollow but warm.

The next time we saw Mom, it was on a viral video on someone elses phone.

She was standing on a stage, publicly declaring Lawrences son, Wesley, as her own.

My chest burned. "Dad... did Mom replace me?"

My father grabbed the phone, his hands shaking violently as he stared at the screen.

He took my hand, and we ran to the grand estate where the adoption party was being held.

When we pushed through the double doors, the ballroom fell dead silent.

My father's voice was cracked, raw. "You said you were never going back to your family, Cynthia. You said you were done with him."

"You adopted his kid? What about us? What about your real son?"

I looked at Diana, my voice cracking. "Diana... I'm your brother."

Lawrence and Wesley's eyes welled with tears. Lawrence turned to leave, but Cynthia caught his arm, desperate.

"Cynthia, is this true?" Lawrence whimpered.

Cynthia held him close, her voice a soothing murmur. "No, darling. Theyre just stalkers. Theyve been harassing me."

Diana sneered at us. "You heard her. Get out before I have the guards throw you into the street."

The room erupted into whispers and cruel laughter.

"Look at those scammers trying to leech off her."

"Everyone knows how much Cynthia loves Lawrence. She waited years for him, and now these grifters are trying to ruin their family."

After we were kicked out, Cynthia came to our apartment once, crying, begging my father to understand.

She claimed returning to her family was her only choice to clear the debts. She claimed adopting Wesley was to repay a life-saving favor.

"Once I secure my inheritance, I'll bring you both home," she wept. "Well be together forever."

My father, skeletal and weak, pushed her away with everything he had left.

"You knew," he sobbed. "You knew what those collectors did to me to pay off your loans. You knew what you were doing to our boy."

"I hate you, Cynthia. I want to rip you apart. I want you to feel even a fraction of the agony we lived through."

She didn't know how terrified I was of Wesley. Even when he tortured me at school, I kept quiet, too afraid to cause trouble.

Cynthia wiped her tears, her face filled with brief remorse. But before she could speak, Lawrences voice cut through the room from the doorway.

He stood there, pale, pointing at my father. "Cynthia... who is this man to you?"

Cynthia panicked. She shoved me and my father away, rushing to soothe Lawrence.

"Lawrence, let me explain. I just felt sorry for them. He thinks I look like his late wifehe won't leave me alone!"

She turned back to us, her eyes cold, warning.

"Stay away from my family. If I see you near us again, Ill make sure you regret it."

"This is your only warning."

She ordered her bodyguards to force my father and me to our knees.

Wesley watched from the hallway, a cruel grin on his face. After Cynthia left, he dragged us into the back alley.

He struck my father with his belt, his voice a vicious snarl. "Remember this. You try to take whats mine, and Ill put you in the dirt."

Three years have passed, and they haven't changed a bit.

The tears finally broke, burning my cheeks. "Neither of you deserves to say his name!" I screamed, my voice a ruined rasp.

Diana tried to reach for my arm, but I shoved her off.

Her expression hardened. "Is this how he raised you? To scream at your mother?" she snapped. "He was bitter and miserable, and you're turning out exactly like him."

A harsh, broken laugh tore from my chest.

"Miserable? We spent three years hiding from you, doing everything we could to stay out of your pristine sight. How is that still offending you?"

My mother frowned, her voice dripping with condescension. "You don't understand how the world works, Drew."

"Oh, I think I do," I spat. "You understand it perfectlyhow to kick us to the curb the second we become inconvenient."

Her eyes went icy.

"Did your father ever think about your future when he dragged you away?" she demanded. "He did it just to hurt me. Did he ever take responsibility as a parent?"

I stared at her, completely numb. "How do those words even come out of your mouth?"

"You were the one who told us to stay away."

She went quiet for a second, then shifted the blame back to me.

"If you had focused on your exams instead of crashing that party, none of this would have happened," she said. "I wanted you to have a future."

My heart went entirely cold.

Even now, she thought it was my fault.

The night after that party, my father had a raging fever, his body shaking under the thin blankets.

But the next morning was the day the SAT scores were released. He forced himself out of bed, made me a bowl of oatmeal, and kept telling me not to worry, to go check my scores.

But as I was putting on my shoes, Wesley showed up.

He brought a basket of fruit, pretending to be a concerned classmate. My father tried to shut the door, but Wesley suddenly dropped to his knees, crying loudly, screaming that he just wanted a family.

The noise drew the neighbors. Within minutes, Cynthia and Diana arrived.

They didn't come to help. They came to accuse us of bullying Wesley.

My father, shaking with fever, stood in front of me like a shield. "Get out! Leave my son alone!"

In the chaos, Wesley backed toward the kitchen.

A second later, he knocked the grease pan onto the open stove.

Fire erupted instantly, tearing through the cheap wallpaper.

My fathers first instinct wasn't to save himself. He threw his weight against me, shoving me out the front door.

As I stumbled onto the landing, I turned back. The orange glare of the flames lit up his face.

Wesley grinned, slipping past him into the hallway.

Cynthia and Diana grabbed Wesley, shielding him as they ran down the stairs.

Only my father was left inside.

I screamed for him, throwing myself against the heat. I screamed until my throat bled, until the smoke choked the sound into a permanent whisper.

It took two neighbors and a firefighter to pin me to the ground.

I watched the roof collapse. My face was severely burned, my vocal cords scorched.

A few days later, while I was standing in the hospital lobby, my school called.

I had scored a perfect 1600. I was accepted into Columbia University on a full ride.

My father had survived the initial blaze, though he was heavily bandaged, weeping as he held my hand. We cried together, thinking we had finally made it out.

But the day before registration, the nightmare returned.

My scholarship and admission had been revoked and handed to Wesley.

I called my mother dozens of times. None of them went through.

When I finally told my father, his face fell. He reached down, took off his silver wedding bandthe only thing he had leftand pressed it into my palm.

"Go find her. Show her this."

I went to her office. But Cynthia looked at the ring with nothing but disgust.

"With a father like yours, you could never get into an Ivy League school," she sneered. "Stop lying. You're just jealous of Wesley."

"Go enroll in a community college. Maybe I'll hire you as a receptionist one day."

I couldn't speak. My phone was vibrating with a text from the ICU.

My father's lungs were failing from smoke inhalation. He was suffocating.

I squeezed my fists until my knuckles turned white. I bowed my head.

"I won't go to school," I whispered. "Just give me the money. Please."

I traded my Ivy League future for his hospital bills.

But Lawrence cornered me at the billing desk. He snatched the emergency credit card out of my hand, his eyes wild with malice.

"For my son's sake, you will stay in the dirt where you belong," he whispered. "Everything you have belongs to Wesley now. Your future, your life."

"I'll let you live this time. But if you ever try to tell Cynthia, I'll have you and your useless father shipped off to a forced labor camp across the border."

I snapped. I lunged forward, shoving him to the floor.

But Cynthia walked in at that exact moment.

Before I could explain, a bodyguard kicked me from behind, sending me crashing into the tile.

My wrist snapped with a sickening pop. I screamed, rolling on the floor in agony.

They didn't even look at me. They only coddled Lawrence.

I crawled toward the card on the floor, trying to reach it with my good hand.

My mother stepped on my fingers, kicking the card away.

"Lawrence lost his balance, crashing into Cynthia. She fell hard against the counter, clutching her stomach. 'My baby... the baby!'"

"If you're going to be this greedy, you get nothing."

"I'll leave a bare minimum for your living expenses, just so you remember this lesson. But even if you end up begging on the street, I won't give you another dime."

I dragged myself up, sobbing. "Mom, please... Dad needs surgery. Without the money, he'll die."

The noise drew my father out of his room. He was pale, clinging to the IV stand, begging her.

"I don't need the surgery," he rasped. "Just let our boy go to school... please."

Cynthia looked at him with nothing but disgust.

"Look at what you've turned him into," she said. "Until you both learn to apologize to Lawrence, don't ever call me."

She walked away with Lawrence.

She never looked back.

Later, a kind stranger helped me buy a cheap, secondhand phone.

I started streaming my street performances online, trying to raise money. With the help of some online donations, Dad's condition began to stabilize.

Until...

The memory cut deep. I looked at Cynthia, my eyes burning.

"What do we have to do for you to finally leave us alone?"

The hallway fell dead silent.

My mother's expression crumbled, shifting through a dozen different emotions before she finally managed to speak, her voice tight.

"Tell your father to come out. He needs to take responsibility for you."

I let out a loud, hysterical laugh, tears spilling over my scars.

"Don't you get it? He's dead!"

"He's been dead for three years! His bones are dust!"

"Snap."

Her palm slammed across my face, the sting sharp and hot.

"Stop lying!" she shrieked. "Do you think making up a story will keep me from finding him? When I do, I'll make sure neither of you ever has a peaceful day again!"

I held my bruised cheek, staring at her with pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Go ahead," I whispered. "Find him. Do whatever you want to us."

She glared at me for a few tense seconds. "Just you wait," she spat, turning on her heel.

Diana looked at me, her mouth opening as if she wanted to say something, but she ultimately turned and followed our mother out.

The second they left, the adrenaline drained from my body, leaving me hollow.

Saying those words out loud hadn't brought the relief I thought it would.

Only exhaustion.

I was too tired to even hate them anymore.

When I got back to my cramped, dark rental that night, the city was already pitch black.

I walked over to the small table and gently wiped the dust off the keepsake urn with a tissue, just like I did every night.

But as I wiped, the tears began to fall, soaking the paper.

"Dad..."

"If I had just grown up a little faster..."

"Would you still be here?"

I slid down to the cold floor, pulling the heavy ceramic urn into my chest, resting my forehead against the cool surface.

Eventually, I drifted off.

In my dreams, I was back in that dark place.

The day the internet trolls flooded my livestream. Someone had leaked our address, claiming my father was a gold-digging homewrecker who had ruined Cynthia's life.

It went viral.

To the world, my father and I were parasites clawing at a billionaire's coat-tails.

In every photo, she was trying to shake us off.

A mob showed up at the hospital, dragging my father and me out onto the street.

In the middle of the screaming crowd, someone stepped hard on my hand. I heard the tiny bones in my fingers snap.

I looked up through the tears.

Lawrence was standing there, looking down at me with a cold, triumphant smirk.

I lunged forward, sinking my teeth deep into his leg.

He lost his balance, crashing into Cynthia. She fell hard against the counter, clutching her stomach. "My baby... the baby!"

Diana, who was on patrol nearby, rushed through the crowd, frantic.

"Dad! Are you okay?"

My father looked at her, his heart breaking as he watched his own daughter scream for another man.

After the ambulance left, my father and I were locked in a holding cell under suspicion of assault and harassment.

Though the charges were eventually dropped, no hospital would take my father back.

On the long walk home, my father stared at the gray sky, silent tears tracing his worn face.

"Drew," he whispered after a long time. "Let's go somewhere they can't find us."

I nodded, my throat tight. "Okay."

But the moment we unlocked our front door, the debt collectors were waiting.

They claimed Cynthia's old debts weren't fully settled. They threatened to sell me to an offshore human trafficking ring if we didn't pay.

My father threw himself in front of me like a wild animal. They broke his arm, but he never let go of me.

Eventually, a neighbor called the police, and the men fled.

But my father was barely breathing.

I dragged him to the nearest clinic, but they turned us away because I couldn't pay the deposit.

I had no choice.

Even knowing it was useless, I went to find Cynthia.

Afraid she wouldn't see me, I knelt right in the center of her corporate lobby.

When she came down, her voice was like ice. "Stop putting on a show! Who would dare collect my debts?"

"Do you have any idea how much danger you put your sister in? How do you have the nerve to ask for money?"

"I told you, even if you starve to death, I won't help you. Get out."

I pictured my father, fading away in that alley. The last spark of hope inside me died.

"I'll apologize," I whispered.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Carlisle. I'm sorry, Mr. Lawrence. It was all my fault."

Wesley stood by, mocking me. "An apology doesn't mean anything without proof."

I bit my lip, pressing my forehead hard against the cold marble floor.

"Thud. Thud. Thud."

"I'm a parasite. I forced myself on Mrs. Carlisle."

"I'm a monster. I hurt Mr. Lawrence."

"I'm sorry. Please. I promise I'll disappear forever."

Blood smeared across the white marble.

My cracked voice echoed through the vast, empty lobby.

Wesley laughed, a sound of pure, twisted satisfaction.

"See, Aunt Cynthia? He's not your son. He doesn't have a single bone of dignity in his body."

Cynthias face remained entirely expressionless. She flicked a card into the blood on the floor.

"Take the money and run. I don't ever want to see you again."

I clutched the bloody card and ran back to the clinic.

But when the receptionist ran it, she looked at me with pity.

The card was empty.

I stood at the window, the world turning to static in my ears.

I went back to his room, squeezing his cold, trembling hand. "Don't worry, Dad. I'm going to save you."

I went back to the collectors. I told them I would go to the offshore ring.

They made me take off my shirt, taking photos with my ID as collateral.

But by the time I got back to the clinic with the cash, my phone rang.

It was the doctor.

My father had climbed out of the window.

The last thing he left me was a voicemail.

"Drew, I'm sorry. You have to live. You have to keep going."

I ran to the alley beneath the window, falling to my knees beside his broken body, screaming into the empty air.

My father was gone.

I held the urn in my lap, crying until my chest felt like it would crack.

"Dad, let's go home," I whispered.

I packed my few belongings and opened the door.

Cynthia was standing on the landing.

Her eyes drifted past me, freezing on the black-and-white photo on the urn.

Her face drained of all color.