Chapter 5: The Family Test

The billionaire’s family lived in an exclusive penthouse at Silver Heights. Since I’d been here in my previous life, I wasn’t too shocked.

The doorman recognized the billionaire right away, offering a respectful nod. The elevator ride was silent, the city lights sparkling below us. I kept my cool, resisting the urge to gawk at the marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows.

I behaved calmly, not deliberately hiding it.

I let myself take it all in, but didn’t act surprised. The billionaire glanced at me, measuring my reaction. I knew the drill.

Unexpectedly, the billionaire was even more satisfied with me.

He smiled, a real, approving smile. “Not easily impressed. Good.” I felt a small surge of pride.

It turned out he had been secretly observing my reaction from the start.

Even in the elevator, his eyes never left me. He watched how I handled myself, how I navigated the new world he was opening for me.

"Nathan, to be my son, you have to be calm and composed. I’m very satisfied with your performance today."

His voice was gentle, almost fatherly. It was the kind of praise I’d always wanted, but never let myself expect.

"Thank you, Dad."

I said it quietly, but I meant it. The word felt strange on my tongue, but also… right.

"What do you think of your brother Tyler?"

The name stung—Tyler. My brother’s new identity, a fresh start he’d chosen for himself. The billionaire’s eyes searched mine, waiting for honesty.

Without thinking, I replied, "He’s still immature."

The words slipped out before I could stop them. I meant it kindly, but there was no hiding the truth.

The billionaire said "Good" twice in a row.

He nodded, repeating himself. “Good. Good.” His approval was clear.

"Not bad, Nathan, I really like your character."

His words were a stamp of approval, the kind that opened doors in his world.

"Tell the kitchen to make more dishes. Today I want to have some drinks and a good chat with my son."

He clapped his hands, and a housekeeper appeared, all efficiency and smiles. The kitchen buzzed to life, the smell of roast chicken and fresh bread drifting in.

"He’s still in high school, why let him drink?" the billionaire’s wife, Mrs. Campbell, frowned and said.

Her voice was soft but firm, the kind that brooked no nonsense. She had a kind face, with laugh lines around her eyes and a warmth I hadn’t expected.

Then she came over to me with concern: "Your name is Nathan, right? Nice to meet you. From now on, you can call me Mom."

She reached out and took my hand in hers, her grip gentle but steady. The gesture made my throat tighten.

"Mom."

The word slipped out, shy but genuine. She squeezed my hand, her eyes shining.

"Ah, what a sweet kid. Come, let Mom show you your bedroom."

She led me down the hall, pointing out family photos—vacations in Hawaii, Christmas mornings, graduation caps. The room she opened was bright and airy, with a view of the city skyline. My own bed, my own space.

Mrs. Campbell took me to the bedroom, kindly telling me not to be too reserved, that I might not get used to it at first but would be fine with time.

She sat on the edge of the bed, patting the comforter. “It’s a lot to take in, but you’ll settle. If you need anything, just ask.” She smiled, her voice soft.

I nodded seriously, but my eyes unknowingly grew moist.

My knees almost buckled. I hadn’t realized how much I missed being someone’s kid.

Our biological parents died in a car accident when my brother and I were just a few years old.

Sometimes I saw their faces in dreams—quick flashes of laughter, the sound of their voices fading away. After they died, everything changed.

Relatives said raising boys was too much, and no one was willing to take us in.

We bounced from couch to couch, unwelcome everywhere. Eventually, the system claimed us, and the rest is history.

Less than a month after our parents died, we were sent to the group home.

The memory of those first nights in a strange bed still haunted me—crying quietly so my brother wouldn’t hear, listening to the sounds of other kids sobbing in the dark.

Sometimes kind people would come to see us; some would smile and ask me to call them Mom.

Volunteers and donors would visit, always with bright smiles and heavy promises. They meant well, but they didn’t stay.

Every time, I would call them, and call very sweetly.

I learned quickly how to play the part—smiling, being polite, saying “Mom” or “Dad” as easily as breathing. It was survival, not affection.

Living in that environment, we all learned one skill: how to please others.

You became an expert at reading faces, knowing what to say, how to act. It wasn’t lying—it was adaptation. If it meant a second helping at dinner, you did it.

Please others, so they would donate, so we could eat our fill and have new clothes.

Sometimes I felt guilty, but what else could we do? The world didn’t hand out kindness for free.

Never having felt a mother’s love, seeing Mrs. Campbell’s kind face, I was suddenly moved.

Her hand on my shoulder was steady, no strings attached. I felt my walls start to crumble.

Is this what motherly love feels like?

I’d read about it in books, seen it in movies, but never believed it could be real. For a moment, I let myself hope.

It really can be this warm.

Her kindness wrapped around me like a blanket. I wanted to believe it could last.

I never envied my brother, but now I do—I envy that he could have had such a gentle and caring mom in his previous life.

I wondered if he ever realized what he’d lost, or if he took it all for granted.

Seeing me cry, Mrs. Campbell comforted me with a smile, and soon her eyes turned red too.

She pulled me into a gentle hug, her voice trembling. “It’s okay to cry, Nathan. You’re safe now.”

"Nathan, come, let’s eat."

She led me back to the dining room, her arm around my shoulders. The table was set, the smell of food inviting. For the first time in years, I felt a flicker of belonging.