Mom and Dad, Your Apology Came Too Late Chapter 08
They dragged the old accusation back into the spotlight.
The same lie they used years ago-that I stole Samuel’s painting and entered it in the competition as my own.
[Ungrateful Son Runs Away for Years While His Parents and Brother Still Beg Him to Come Home]
They claimed that after I left, Samuel had been so worried about me that the emotional blow had destroyed his creativity, which was why he hadn’t produced any notable work in years.
Just like before, the comments were filled with hatred.
My address was posted online.
More and more strangers began showing up outside my house.
What started as insults quickly escalated into shattered windows and kicked-in doors.
Some even went out of their way to buy meat from my adoptive father’s butcher shop, only to spread rumors that he was selling spoiled meat, forcing him to shut down the business.
When I saw him sitting on the ground beside his stall, clutching a torn section of the canopy, it felt as though someone had wrapped a hand around my throat.
“Dad… I’m sorry.”
My chest tightened painfully.
My mother somehow got hold of my phone number through the hospital and called me.
“Come home right now. If anything happens to that adoptive father of yours, it’ll be your fault. Stop ruining other people’s lives.”
At that moment, Samuel uploaded a new video.
His eyes were red and swollen from crying.
“I’ve already forgiven my brother. Please don’t attack him. All I want is for him to come home and stop making Mom and Dad worry…
“If he asks, I’ll give him anything. Mom and Dad, my paintings, everything.”
[How can someone this kind end up with a brother who’s complete human trash?]
[His entire family is begging him to come home, and he’s still hiding and acting like he’s the victim. Who does he think he is?]
[Don’t let someone like that come back and make everyone miserable again. Let him die wherever he is.]
Some people took those words seriously.
One evening, flames appeared in a metal barrel just outside our yard.
My heart lurched, and I rushed outside.
“Have you all lost your minds?!”
A baseball bat slammed into my shoulder in response.
Every word had to be forced out through pain and blood.
“I have proof!”
The crowd hesitated.
I stared at them and shouted:
“I can prove it. That painting was mine.”
