He never deserved a loving family—because, to them, he was nothing more than a stray they had picked up on a whim.
A nameless thing.
A burden they had tolerated out of convenience or false virtue.
They were not his real family.
In that brief, cruel moment—when the truth finally tore through him like a blade—Matthew regretted everything.
He regretted it so deeply it felt as though his chest might split open under the weight of it.
He regretted wasting years of his life trying to earn the affection of people who were not related to him in any way.
People who had never truly seen him, never truly cared, never once treated him with warmth unless it benefited them.
He had endured their coldness.
Their indifference.
Their quiet cruelty disguised as obligation.
If only—if only they had treated him better after taking him in, even just a little—perhaps his heart would not have rotted into such overwhelming regret and hatred.
But they hadn't.
