Reborn The Son They Threw Away Became the Nation's Pride

I was the throwaway child, the first draft they never planned to keep.

Mom and Dad sat me down together and asked if I wanted a little brother.

I looked at the toy car in my hands, the only toy I owned, and shook my head solemnly.

I don't want a little brother. And I don't want a little sister either.

But they never cared what I thought. They laughed, handed me off to my grandparents, and didn't come back for a full year. When they finally did, they had a chubby baby boy in their arms.

Mom said he'd be my playmate. My flesh and blood.

But I never even made it to adulthood. My brother got leukemia.

I was strapped to an operating table, again and again, while thick steel needles punched through bone into marrow.

When his kidneys failed, Mom signed a voluntary organ donation consent form on my behalf. She had every legal right. She was my guardian.

I dropped to my knees and begged. I told them I had a clotting disorder. But Mom and Dad decided I was lying. They called me cold-blooded. They held me down while a nurse pushed the anesthetic into my veins.

I bled out on that operating table. Every last drop. The surgical lights were the last thing I saw, cold and white and blinding.

Then I opened my eyes.

Mom was crouched in front of me, her face glowing with maternal warmth.

"Desi, sweetheart, Mommy has a little baby in her tummy! Wouldn't you love a little brother to play with?"

She held two action figures in her hands. Behind her, a brand-new blue crib stood in the corner, the one Dad had just bought.

I looked down at the toy car in my hands. The only toy I owned.

I understood. I was back.

This time, I would never be my brother's blood bank. And I would never let my parents chain me with their hollow, counterfeit love.

Dad leaned in with that eager, coaxing smile. "Come on, buddy. There's a little brother growing in Mommy's tummy right now. You're always scared of sleeping alone, right? Once your baby brother's here, you'll never be lonely again."

He'd said those exact words in my last life.

But after my little brother was born, I was lonelier than ever.

Mom stopped reading me bedtime stories. Dad stopped pulling me onto his lap. Overnight, I became invisible in my own home.

Be good. Take care of your brother. Act like a big brother.

I was five years old when they said those things to me.

Five. They expected a five-year-old to swallow every ounce of jealousy, every flicker of hurt, and devote himself entirely to a screaming lump of flesh that hadn't even been born yet.

Back then, I'd felt it, dim and wordless, the sense that something was about to be taken from me. I was terrified. So I told Mom and Dad that I wanted to be their only baby forever.

Mom's face twisted. She jabbed a finger at me and screamed, "I always knew you were the jealous type! You can't even tolerate your own brother!"

I didn't understand what she meant. All I knew was that she was angry.

So I sobbed and told her I was sorry. I said I was wrong. I said I wanted a little brother to play with.

Only then did she smile. But later that night, she whispered to Dad when she thought I couldn't hear: "I saw a story online about an eight-year-old boy who pushed his pregnant mother down the stairs. Who knows if that little brat would snap and come after me? I think we should send him back to the countryside. We can deal with him after Lucius Galloway is born."

Lucius. They'd already picked out his name before he even existed. Lucius, meaning legacy, inheritance, everything the family had would one day be his.

The memories kept flooding back, one after another. My gaze darkened.

Mom must have thought I didn't understand. She took my hand and pressed it against her belly.

"There's a tiny little life growing inside Mommy right now. It might be a brother, or it might be a sister. Aren't you excited?"

Dad walked over and put his arm around her, grinning. "One son is more than enough for me. I'm hoping for a girl, actually. That way our little Desi will have someone to play with."

He'd said that in my last life too. And I'd believed him. I'd gotten so excited that I blurted out how much I wanted a little brother.

But after my brother was born, he despised me. He threw his toys at my head. And the one toy I owned, my only toy, he smashed it to pieces on purpose.

Whenever I went to my parents to complain, they always said the same thing:

"Didn't you say you wanted a little brother to play with? He's still young. He doesn't know any better. You need to be more understanding."

They'd used that line to shut me down through my entire childhood and adolescence. They were still using it when they took my life just before I turned eighteen.

So this time, I stared at the room full of baby supplies without a flicker of expression and pointed. "You've already decided to have it. Why even bother asking me?"

For a split second, both of them went quiet, caught off guard.

I said nothing. I turned around, picked up my battered old toy car, and headed upstairs.

There had always been a large, bright room on the second floor that sat empty. My parents said it was the guest room.

Only now did it click. It had never been for guests. It was for the brother who hadn't been born yet.

Back in my own cramped little room, the tears finally came.

I'd spent all those years swallowing my pride, enduring surgery after surgery through blinding pain, and they still believed it was my duty.

Every time I was scared, every time I begged for a moment to recover and hoped my mother would comfort me, all I got was a lecture. Sometimes worse.

"If you hadn't said you wanted a little brother, I never would've had a second child! He's here now. What makes you think you can just ignore him?"

My fists clenched so hard my knuckles went white. I made up my mind. I was getting out of this hellhole.

I went over everything, piece by piece, until I finally accepted the truth my parents had never loved me.

From the day I was born, I'd never received any special affection. My mother's entire philosophy of raising me boiled down to four words: behave, save money, obey. Don't be difficult. Take care of the family.

So I never dared ask for anything. Except once, when I was three, crying my eyes out over a toy car at a street stall.

My mother slapped me across the face right there in public and left me standing at the stall alone. I cried the entire morning.

It was my father who finally bought it. He crouched down and spoke to me in that grave, measured tone of his:

"Your mother doesn't work so she can take care of you. I support this family all by myself, and it's hard. That toy car costs as much as a pound of braised pork. Don't blame your mom. She just wants you to be a good boy."

I was three. I didn't understand anything. The moment I heard those words, I thought we were so poor we couldn't afford to eat. I sobbed and apologized to my mother, promising I would never ask for another toy again.

But even back then, my mother's dresses cost over a thousand dollars each. The cigarettes my father smoked every day were top-shelf brands.

After my little brother was born, new toys showed up every single month.

Our family was never going to starve because of a toy car that cost a few bucks.

They simply couldn't bring themselves to spend money on me. Couldn't bring themselves to waste love on me, either.

Sure enough, the very next morning, my mother knocked on my door.

She put on a pained expression. "Desi, Mommy has your little brother in her tummy now, so I can't really take care of you. Could you go stay at Grandma's for a few days?"

I stared at her, cold and unblinking. "A few days. Really?"

My bluntness caught her off guard. She faltered for a moment, but recovered.

"Of course. Once Mommy's feeling better, I'll come bring you home."

I didn't look at her again. I turned around, grabbed my little backpack, and stuffed in the handful of clothes I owned and my one toy car.

"Let's go."

She was the one sending me away. But the second I got in the car, the tears started falling down her cheeks. "Let Daddy drive you. It'll upset Mommy too much to watch you leave."

Anyone watching would've thought she adored me.

The truth was simpler. She felt guilty.

After all, the "few days" trip was really going to last at least a year.

The car drove from the highway onto a narrow, winding mountain road. Eventually, the familiar run-down village came into view.

Sebastian's expression was the picture of composure. "Be good at Grandpa Galloway and Grandma's house. Help out where you can, don't throw tantrums, and call me if you need anything."

He pressed a kids' smartwatch into my hand. I stared at it for a long moment.

"Will you actually pick up?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "Of course I will. How could I not answer my little Desi's calls?"

"Don't worry. Even after the baby comes, you'll always be my favorite. Just be a good boy and stay with Grandpa and Grandma. I'll come get you in a few days."

Liar.

In my previous life, after they dumped me at my grandparents' house, my uncle's youngest son bullied me relentlessly, calling me an orphan nobody wanted.

I called my father in tears. He picked up, said he was at work, and hung up before I could finish a sentence.

That first month, still lost and scared in an unfamiliar place, I called him five times. He answered twice. Each call lasted a few seconds.

By the second month, he'd forgotten to top up the smartwatch plan. The phone couldn't dial out at all.

But back then, I thought I'd broken it myself. I hid in a corner and cried alone, blaming myself, counting the days until Mom and Dad would come take me home.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

A year and a half later, my father finally had my uncle bring me back to the city on one of his trips in.

The moment I walked through the door, my mother pinched her nose. "Desmond, why do you reek of duck droppings? Did you never bathe out there?"

I was six. The shame hit me like a wall. I ducked my head, wishing I could disappear.

Next to my brother, plump and pale as a dumpling, I looked like a scrawny little monkey, skin yellowed from over a year of sun. Not exactly lovable.

But whose fault was that? She was the one who'd had my father ship me off to the countryside in the first place.

This time, I knew what to expect.

The day I arrived at my grandparents' house, my aunt made her feelings perfectly clear.

"His own parents can't be bothered to raise him, and now they dump the kid on us!"

Uncle Galloway glanced at me once, said nothing, and walked back inside.

I carried my backpack to the eaves of my grandparents' cottage, crouched down, and started drawing and writing on my own.

They didn't want me here. But my father sent money every month.

So they wouldn't starve me, and they wouldn't let me freeze.

This time, I wasn't going to cry myself to sleep every night, begging for parents who would never come. I was going to take care of myself and build the strength to break free from all of them.

It wasn't until the sun sank behind the hills that Grandpa and Grandma Galloway came home from the fields.

They didn't recognize me, so I walked up to them first.

"Grandpa, Grandma. I'm Desi. I'm here to keep you company."

Grandma pulled me into her arms immediately, her weathered hands warm against my back. Grandpa's face split into a grin so wide it looked like it might never close. He ushered me inside and dug out a tin of cookies.

That night, I lay on a bamboo mat, and Grandma fanned me while I drifted off. Every now and then, Grandpa would look over at me, then let out a long, heavy sigh.

Tears slid from the corners of my eyes into the mat.

I swore to myself: this time, I would repay every ounce of their love. This time, I would never let them die like that again.

Just like before, my parents didn't come for me until over a year had passed.

The difference was that this time, they came in person.

Lucius lay in my mother's arms, round and milky-white. She nursed him while asking me a few offhand questions about whether I'd been good for Grandpa and Grandma.

Uncle and Aunt Galloway couldn't stop beaming the moment they spotted the gifts my father had brought. They heaped praise on me, saying how well-behaved and hardworking I was, bragging that even though I hadn't started school yet, I could already read dozens of words.

My mother seized on that instantly, her smile bright. "He gets it from me. I was class monitor back in school!"

My father looked pleased too. He bent down and tickled the nursing baby's chin. "Big brother's so smart. Little brother won't be far behind."

They started making plans to bring me back to the city for school.

But I wasn't going back. I said:

"I want to stay here with Grandpa and Grandma."

Grandma was stunned. Despite how much she wanted me to stay, she shook her head. "Go back with your parents. The schools in the city are better, and you start first grade next year. Don't fall behind."

Grandpa chimed in too. "The teachers out here rap your knuckles with a ruler. City teachers hand out candy."

Grandma was strong. She scooped me up and stuffed me right into Dad's car. "You can visit us every break. Don't be stubborn, silly boy!"

The car pulled away. Mom's smile vanished the instant the doors closed.

"Living like a wild animal out there, weren't you? Don't even want to come home anymore? You're not even in school yet and you've already given up on learning. All you do is climb trees and catch crawdads. You're a boy. Can't you try to amount to something?"

I opened my mouth to defend myself, then stopped. There was no point. She'd already made up her mind about who I was.

When I didn't answer, she grew even more pleased with herself. "Nothing to say? Because I'm right, aren't I?"

Dad put on his nice-guy act. "Come on, come on. It's his first day back. Don't upset him."

Mom let out a sharp huff, then turned away and dangled a toy car in front of Lucius. She didn't say another word to me for the rest of the ride.

When we got home, a cake sat on the dining table, shaped like a race car. Around it were little jars and pouches of baby food.

The moment we sat down, Mom announced, "This cake was bought especially to welcome you home. Your little brother doesn't even get one!"

I laughed to myself. Lucius didn't get one because he was still a baby and couldn't eat cake.

And for a cake that was supposedly mine, it was awfully convenient that the design was a race car, Lucius's favorite thing in the world.

The candles were lit. I leaned forward to blow them out, and Mom's hand shot across the table to stop me.

"Your brother can't eat the cake, so at least let him blow out the candles. You'll get the whole thing afterward."

I sat back and didn't move. I watched her coax a one-year-old into blowing out candles.

The baby had no idea how blowing worked. He sputtered and drooled all over the frosting, spraying spit across the icing with every attempt, and then, thrilled with himself, slammed both tiny fists into the cake and smashed it to pieces.

Mom's eyes darted to me. When she saw I wasn't upset, she turned back to Lucius with a beaming smile.

"My boy is so strong! What a good baby!"

I watched in silence. Oh, he's strong all right. The kid could barely walk in a straight line, but in a few years he'd manage to shoot a toy gun with enough force to blind both eyes of someone's show dog worth over a hundred thousand dollars.

A real little powerhouse.

After coming home, I threw myself into studying. Mom would toss out jabs whenever she passed my room. "What's the point of all that studying? Why don't you come help me wash the dishes, or play with your brother for a while?"

I ignored her completely. I kept my head in my books and signed up for every academic competition I could find.

Every winter and summer break, I went straight to the countryside to be with Grandpa and Grandma.

Over time, Mom noticed the distance between us and liked me even less for it. She stopped trying altogether and began pretending I wasn't there.

In my previous life, this would have destroyed me. A teenager starving for his mother's approval, trapped in anxiety and spiraling toward depression.

But now, it didn't touch me at all.

Then came sixth grade.

Lucius burst through the front door in a panic, bolted to his room, and refused to come out for dinner.

Mom rushed to his door and knocked. "Lucius? What happened? Did something scare you while you were out playing?"

He wouldn't say a word.

I glanced at the date on the calendar. I already knew exactly what he'd done. He'd just shot out both eyes of someone's beloved dog, and now he was terrified.

The owner was out there right now, tearing through the neighborhood looking for whoever did it.

In my previous life, I hadn't been home when it happened.

I didn't find out until the weekend, when Mom dragged me in front of the dog's owner and forced me to my knees. She'd told them I was the one who'd shot the dog with the toy gun.

She slapped me across the face. More than once. Then the owner made me kneel before the dog and apologize.

Kids I knew from school saw the whole thing.

I became the irredeemable monster who'd blinded a dog. Everyone turned on me.

A few kids who were obsessed with animals cornered me in the bathroom, beat me bloody, and forced me to drink from the toilet.

So this time, I strolled back home without a care in the world.

I lingered in front of the security cameras on purpose, making sure I never once stepped outside. One look at the footage would prove I hadn't left the house. Even if Mom wanted to pin this on me, she wouldn't be able to.

But I underestimated the depth of her favoritism.

She was worried Lucius wouldn't eat, so she unlocked his door and went in. The moment she saw him sobbing, she panicked.

After pressing him over and over, the truth finally came out: he'd been bragging to his friends about spotting a wild boar, fired his toy gun at it, and only realized afterward that it was someone's dog.

The dog's owner had a reputation for being untouchable. Even Mom's face darkened. "That's Mr. Chavez's wife's dog. Your father works under that man!"

Lucius burst into fresh tears. "Then what do we do?"

The second his wailing started, a fist hammered against the front door.

"Get out here! Your kid blinded my dog! Where are the parents? Get out here NOW!"

"Don't you dare play dumb! I've still got the toy gun! This imported modelonly ONE family in all of Bayport City bought it! Don't even THINK about denying it!"

I sat in my room with a book open, listening to the chaos unfold outside.

The instant that knocking started, Lucius's crying vanished. Just like that.

I let out a cold laugh. Already found a hiding spot, huh?

I was about to go out and watch the show when my bedroom door flew open. Mom stood there, face white with terror.

"It was my older son who accidentally hit your dog," she called over her shoulder. "He's young. Please don't be too hard on him."

The woman outsidehands still smeared with bloodstormed past her and slapped me across the face. "YOU'RE the one who shot my dog with this thing?"

I stared at Mom in disbelief. She flinched, looked away. A few seconds later, her eyes slid back to me, pleading.