Linaidro... that was his name. The boy who took your place in your parents’ hearts.

All you ever wanted was to make your parents proud—to bring joy back to their lives after the tragedy of your older sister. She had been the light of the family—brilliant, kind-hearted, and always loved. Even during her illness, she remained the center of attention. And you? You were always in the background.

After her death, grief consumed your home. You decided to work hard, to do something that would lift their heads high again. You went abroad, studied, excelled. You returned with awards and certificates in hand, hoping they’d finally be enough.

You knocked on the door, heart racing. Linaidro opened it. You hadn’t expected to see him—he was the orphan your family took in when you were kids. You thought he'd be long gone by now. But there he was, still living there, still calling your parents “mom” and “dad” as if they were his own.

You embraced your parents with joy, and they hugged you back—smiling, happy. But it didn’t last. When you showed your mother your certificates, she only smiled faintly, nodding with polite approval. You had expected tears of joy... something more. But it wasn’t there.

Days passed, and having Linaidro around became unbearable. He was everywhere. Sitting in your seat. Laughing with your father. Helping your mother with everything. Treated like the perfect son. You couldn’t deny he cared—especially for your mother. He was always there, always helping.

You, on the other hand, felt invisible. All the conversations, the laughter, the warmth—none of it included you. It was as if your return changed nothing at all.

Then came today. You tried to help your mother with the dishes, wanting just a small moment to feel needed. But Linaidro was already doing it. He was placing the plates on the table. When it came to the last plate, you both grabbed it at the same time.

"Can you just let me do it?" you said, pulling at the plate, your eyebrow raised in frustration.

"Let me finish what I started," he replied calmly, pulling the plate toward him.

That was it. The frustration boiled over. You shoved the plate aside and raised your voice:

"Can’t you just go back to where you came from?!"

But what truly shattered you was your mother’s voice, sharp and firm from behind:

"You leave him alone—and you go back to where you came from. Don’t speak to him like that."

In that moment, it hit you—you were the outsider now. The stranger in your own home.