Chapter 1: Burned Bridges, Second Chances

After our parents died in a house fire rescue back in 1990, my brother and I got split up—one of us sent to volunteer at a nursing home, the other stuck driving for some rich heiress.

Even now, the memory of that smoky night sometimes creeps into my dreams: the crackle of flames, the shouts of neighbors, the bitter sting of loss. The social worker who placed us didn’t mince words—Maple Heights wasn’t the kind of place that gave you a mulligan. We were given two options, and the clock was ticking.

My brother leapt at the chance to be the driver. Of course he did. Smirking, he turned to me, ready to rub it in.

He always had a way of making a win feel like a personal insult. "First come, first served! Sooner or later, I’ll get in good with that rich family. You’re just a loser—go take care of those geezers, why don’t you?"

He said it loud enough for the whole room—just to make sure I’d never forget who was the winner here, and who was the chump.

But he had no idea. That nursing home? Not your average place. Every resident there was either loaded or had serious pull.

The place looked like your average brick-and-vinyl retirement home from the outside, but inside, the hallways echoed with the clipped voices of former CEOs, retired politicians, and a handful of sharp-eyed women who still wore pearls at breakfast. The scent of old money hung in the air—mixed with the usual nursing home antiseptic.

Didn’t take long before the richest guy in Maple Heights noticed me. Next thing, he made me his godson, and soon I was worth millions.

It happened almost by accident. One day, I helped him fix his radio. The next, he was calling me "son" and inviting me to Sunday brunch at his country club.

It was like flipping a switch. Suddenly, people who used to ignore me started calling me "sir." I almost didn’t recognize my own life.

Meanwhile, my brother? He couldn’t stand the heiress’s princess attitude. Didn’t last long—got himself kicked out, broke and miserable.

Turns out, money can’t buy patience. He called home every other night, venting about her demands—"She made me wait outside in the rain for an hour! Can you believe that? She wanted her latte at exactly 102 degrees!" By the third week, he was out on his ass, suitcase in hand, pride in tatters. Couldn’t say I was surprised.

He grew to hate me for it. One day, when I was alone, he ran me over with a car. Just like that—turned me into a stain on the street.

That day’s just a blur—screeching tires, blinding headlights. What stuck with me wasn’t the pain, but the shock. Betrayal, plain and simple. That was the end of everything we’d ever been.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back—right there on the day our jobs were assigned. I almost didn’t believe it.

For a split second, I thought I was dreaming. But the old clock, the burnt coffee, my brother’s cocky grin—just like before. That’s when it hit me: I’d been given a second shot.

This time, my brother shoved me aside and rushed to volunteer at the nursing home. Go figure.

He didn’t even look at me, just barreled forward like a linebacker going for the end zone. The look in his eyes? All bite, no warmth.

Seeing that stubborn look, I couldn’t help but laugh—at least on the inside.

He had no idea what he was signing up for. Those twisted old men at the nursing home? Way worse than any heiress’s tantrum. I almost felt bad for him. Almost.

So, thanks, brother. Enjoy my seat in hell.

A cold satisfaction settled in my chest. Guess fate’s got a sense of humor after all.

“I’ll volunteer! I don’t mind cleaning up—I love helping seniors!”

He shouted as he pushed me aside, raising his hand high and running toward the supervisor. I almost rolled my eyes.

He practically tripped over his own feet, voice cracking with fake enthusiasm. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought he was auditioning for a school play.

The supervisor glanced at him and said,

"Alright then, Kevin Miller—you’re the heiress’s new driver. Here’s her number."

He handed me a slip of paper—landline number scribbled on it, like this was still 1990.

I stared at the number. For a second, the world tilted—past and present looping together in a knot.

My brother flashed a smug grin. As soon as the supervisor left, he strutted over, eyes dancing with victory.

He leaned in close—breath reeking of mint gum—and hissed, “Heh, I beat you to it last time, and I’ll beat you this time too. Just deal with it.”

“Go drive for that princess with her attitude. You’ll get kicked out soon enough. Meanwhile, I’ll inherit the old man’s fortune in no time, ha!" I just stared at him, not even bothering to reply.

He patted me on the shoulder, hard enough to sting, then spun away, humming a tune under his breath.

His twisted smile stung. I couldn’t help myself—I had to ask.

“You really hate me that much?” My voice was quieter than I meant.

He sneered, waving me off like I was nothing.

“Of course. You’re not my real brother. When Mom and Dad were alive, we were family. Now they’re gone, and that’s it—we’re done.”

He planted a kiss on his referral letter, then let out a sharp laugh.

“Finally, it’s my turn to live the life of a billionaire’s son, ha!” He strutted off, letter in hand, like he’d just won the lottery. I watched him go, a strange ache in my chest.

So that’s how it was. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

Turns out, all that hatred and resentment—all because we weren’t blood.

It was like a punch to the gut. All those years together—suddenly felt hollow.

He was adopted. Didn’t matter to our parents. Didn’t matter to me.

No "half" measures in our house. We shared everything—Christmas stockings, hand-me-down bikes. If anything, Mom and Dad doted on him more.

Whatever I had, he had. Sometimes more. Perks of being the younger kid, I guess.

I used to joke about it with him—how he always got the bigger slice of pie, the new sneakers, the better seat in the car. It never seemed to bother me before.

Last time, I let him pick first. Just wanted him to have a good life.

I remember thinking, let him have the easy road for once. I just wanted him to be happy.

But after he picked, he wasted no time mocking me. Like I’d never amount to anything.

He never missed a chance to rub it in, either. Every family dinner, every holiday, he’d find a way to remind me who was winning.

When I finally got ahead—through my own hard work—he didn’t hesitate. Ran me over. No mercy.

No warning. No second thoughts. Just cold steel and screeching tires. That kind of betrayal? Never saw it coming.

Now, with a second chance at life, he was even worse—wishing I’d sink lower, starve if he could help it.

Almost impressive, really. I wondered if he even remembered what it was like to be brothers.

Looking at him—this ungrateful snake we’d raised for twenty years—I could only shake my head.

Bro, hope you can handle the 'special attention' from those old freaks. You’re gonna need it.

Especially Old Man Barker—don’t take your clothes off at night. And don’t sleep too deep.

The warning echoed in my head, a dark little secret I almost wanted to share. But I kept it to myself, letting the satisfaction settle in.