From his earliest memories, Marcus Langenfeld knew he was unwanted. His mother, Irina, never hid her disdain. She reserved her affection for his younger brother, Stefan, showering him with indulgence while Marcus grew up with cold glances and harsh words.

At seventeen, Marcus was told to leave.
“This house is not yours,” Irina said sharply one evening, as Stefan sprawled lazily on the couch. “You’re old enough to fend for yourself. Stefan needs space, and I can’t support you both.”

Marcus had only a duffel bag and a burning shame when he walked out. He worked in warehouses, on construction sites, and later studied at night, forcing his way into a better life. Every bitter moment at home hardened his resolve.

Years later, Marcus founded his own construction firm in Rotterdam, and slowly success followed. He married Amalia, a woman who believed in his quiet strength. They had a son, then a daughter. Their home, filled with children’s laughter and warm light, stood in painful contrast to the cold apartment where Marcus had grown up.

Irina’s life, meanwhile, declined. Stefan, spoiled and aimless, became a drunk. Their small flat in Dresden grew shabby. Pension money disappeared into bottles, and the mother who once carried herself with pride now bent under the weight of years and regret.

One afternoon, Irina and Stefan arrived uninvited at Marcus’s new house across the river. The living room smelled of fresh pinewood and coffee. Amalia set out plates of pastries, trying to soften the tension, but Irina’s voice was sharp from the start.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” she said, her eyes darting around the spacious room. Then, without hesitation, she added: “But Stefan has nothing. You should give him a house like this. He’s your brother.”

Marcus froze, then let out a short laugh, bitter as iron.
“A house?” he repeated. “You threw me out into the street. I slept on concrete floors. You never cared whether I lived or died. And now you come here asking me to reward the son who drank away his chances?”

Stefan muttered, “You owe us, Marcus. Blood is blood.”

“No,” Marcus answered coldly. “I owe you nothing. You made your choice. And so did I.”

Irina’s face flushed with anger. She rose abruptly but missed the chair’s edge, stumbling to the floor. For a moment the room went silent. Amalia instinctively moved to help, but Marcus stopped her with a hand. He looked at his mother’s figure on the carpet, and his eyes were unreadable. Slowly, Irina stood, dusting herself off with trembling hands. For the first time, she seemed to realize that her eldest son was utterly lost to her.

After that day, Marcus cut all ties.

Years slipped by. His company thrived, his children grew, and his name appeared in newspapers as a respected entrepreneur. Irina, meanwhile, aged quickly. Her back bent, her hair turned white, Stefan’s drinking grew worse. Poverty pressed hard on them.

Their paths crossed by chance, but each meeting deepened the gulf.

At a supermarket in Hamburg, Irina spotted Marcus in line with Amalia and their toddler. His cart was full of fine goods. Hers carried little more than stale bread and margarine.
“Marcus!” she called.

He turned, glanced at her with distant eyes, and turned back to the cashier.
“Marcus, it’s me—your mother!” she cried louder. Shoppers turned their heads. He collected his bags and walked out, his wife’s hand in his, as if she were no more than a stranger in the crowd.

Another time, at a clinic, Irina saw him cradling a dark-eyed girl who looked just like Marcus had as a boy. “What a beautiful child!” Irina said softly, approaching. “Tell me her name. I’m her grandmother.”

Marcus stood, tightened his hold on the little girl, and walked away down the corridor. His daughter looked back curiously, but he did not stop.
“Marcus, please!” Irina shouted. “Let me see my grandchildren!”

Her voice echoed off the white walls, but he had already turned the corner.

The last time she saw him was through the window of a café in Lyon. Inside, Marcus sat with Amalia and their two children, telling stories that made the little ones burst into laughter. They looked like a picture torn from a family album—ordinary, joyful, whole.

Irina stood outside for a long time, shivering in her worn coat. When Marcus finally glanced up and saw her, their eyes met. She lifted a hand in a hesitant wave, but he looked away and bent back toward his children.

That night she admitted to herself what she had long denied: the bond was broken beyond repair. She had discarded her eldest son when he was vulnerable, and he had erased her in return.

Sitting in her cramped flat beside her drunken younger son, Irina whispered into the silence, “I lost the best of my children.”

And she knew it was true.