Though Mr. Pong made several attempts to talk to Sorawit, the boy didn’t spare him even a glance. Not a word. Not a flicker of acknowledgment. It was as if his father didn’t exist anymore.

Wichian and Mrs. Vamika, helpless witnesses to the cold estrangement, were riddled with guilt. But no matter how much they wanted to ease the tension, there was nothing they could do. Wit had shut everyone out.

---

Monday came, dragging normalcy behind it.

Mr. Pong and Mrs. Vamika left early for work, dressed sharply but burdened with unspoken stress. Wichian joined them for breakfast as usual, quietly sipping his juice while casting nervous glances toward the empty chair across the table.

Sorawit had already left with his personal driver—his silence now part of the morning routine. The atmosphere remained heavy, like everyone was tiptoeing through the wreckage of a family that had cracked in the middle.

No one talked about what had happened.

No one dared to.

---

At School – Break Time

Sorawit walked down the corridor, disinterestedly flipping through his phone when a voice from behind the half-open principal’s office caught his attention.

He paused.

The name he hated most in the world had just been spoken—loud and clear.

Principal: “Wichian, your interschool presentation on plastic upcycling is day after tomorrow. Have you prepared well? This competition is critical for our school's reputation—I’m counting on you.”

Wichian: “Yes, ma’am. I’ve prepared thoroughly. I’m confident I’ll win.”

Principal: “I trust you. But I’d like to review your slides beforehand.”

Wichian: “Of course, I’ll forward the file to your email tonight.”

Principal: “Good. Let’s hope we bring home the trophy. You may return to your class now.”

Wichian: “Thank you, ma’am.”

As Wichian stepped out of the office, Sorawit stood just around the corner, hidden from view. His eyes followed his stepbrother’s retreating figure with icy focus.

Then came the smile—slow, dangerous, and dripping with malice.

“So… you want to make our school proud after turning my world upside down? Okay.... Let’s see how far your pride gets you,” Sorawit muttered under his breath.

“I’ll ruin your perfect little image this time, phi Wichian. I swear I will.”

---

At Home – Late Night

The living room was quiet except for the low hum of the television. Mrs. Vamika sat on the sofa, her eyes fixed on the screen but her mind far elsewhere. The sound of keys at the door pulled her back.

“Honey! You’re still awake?” Mr. Pong’s voice was soft, surprised.

“I was waiting for you,” she replied gently, standing. “Did you eat anything? Are you hungry?”

Mr. Pong clutched his stomach with a dramatic groan. “Yes, I waited to eat with you.”

Vamika gave a tired smile and led him to the dining table.

As they sat down, he glanced at the other chairs. “Did the boys eat?”

She hesitated, then sighed. “Wichian ate earlier. But…”

“But?” His brow furrowed.

“Sorawit hasn’t come home yet.” Her voice dropped lower, almost guilty.

Mr. Pong looked at the clock. Past 10 p.m. already.

“I called him. Several times,” she whispered. “He never picks up.”

Mr. Pong pulled out his phone with a frown. “Let me try.”

But just as he pressed the call button, a familiar ringtone echoed from the front entrance.

The door creaked open. Sorawit stepped in—still in his uniform, hair slightly messy from the wind. He paused upon seeing his father and stepmother at the dining table, then offered them a cold, fleeting glance before heading toward the stairs.

“Wit!” Mr. Pong’s voice halted him. “Wait.”

Sorawit froze on the steps.

“Let’s talk. Just once. I need to clear some things with you.” Mr. Pong walked toward the sofa, not waiting for a response. Mrs. Vamika looked at Wit, then followed her husband. With heavy feet and a cold heart, Sorawit joined them.

“Vamika,” Mr. Pong said quietly, “please call Wichian down too.”

“But you said you wanted to talk to me,” Sorawit muttered, his tone sharp. “Why drag him into this?”

“Because I want peace between both my sons,” Mr. Pong replied firmly. “I can’t stand this silence anymore. This house... it’s breaking.”

Soon, Vamika returned with Wichian, who looked just as confused. All four sat in the living room. The air between them was thick with history, hurt, and heartbreak.

“Wit,” Mr. Pong began slowly, choosing his words, “I know what you think. You believe I care more for Wichian. That I’ve replaced you. But that’s not true. I see you both as my sons.”

Wit clenched his jaw but said nothing.

“You being angry with me—I can take that. Someday, you’ll understand me. But what hurts more is how you treat Wichian.”

Wit’s eyes flickered toward his stepbrother. Wichian stared at the floor.

“Wichian isn’t the boy you think he is,” Mr. Pong continued, voice heavy with emotion. “He’s seen pain. He knows what it’s like to grow up without a father. He’s never once tried to take me away from you. He just… wanted a family.”

“He’s good at playing the victim,” Wit muttered coldly, throwing a glance at Wichian. “Don’t fall for it.”

Mr. Pong exhaled sharply.

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me. That’s why I’ve made a decision—for the peace of this house.”

All three of them looked at him, startled. A tense silence followed, stretching long and tight.

“Wit, I know Wichian. He may be quiet, but he’s kind. He has always treated you as someone special—because he never had a sibling before. He didn’t ask for any of this. He just wanted to belong.”

He paused, then delivered his decision like a blow.

“I’m giving you two months. Just until Wichian graduates. No pranks. No insults. No raised voices. Nothing.

If, after those two months,if you still can’t stand him…

...

I’ll send Wichian abroad.

...

You’ll never have to see his face again.”

Mrs. Vamika gasped, “Honey—”

“Vamika.” Mr. Pong cut her off. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Wichian felt the words land like stones in his chest. He didn’t look at anyone.

This wasn’t the family he had dreamed of. It was broken. Conditional. Fragile.

He wanted love—but all he got was sacrifice.

He clenched his fists in his lap. This house isn’t mine. Mr. Pong isn’t my father. So what’s the point in fighting anymore?

A heavy silence fell.

Then, Sorawit stood up. His voice was calm, almost detached.

“Just two months? Fine. I can manage that.”

He walked away without looking back.

Mr. Pong turned to see Mrs. Vamika holding Wichian’s trembling hand.

She didn’t say a word.

But her eyes, glistening with unshed tears, said everything.

And then came the final blow—quiet but devastating.

“If my son isn’t staying here,” she whispered to her husband,

“then you won’t see me either.”