A shocking charade of filial piety ends in empty-handed ruin: Unfilial children vied to care for their elderly father in a bid to seize a prime plot of land, only to be left devastated when the will was revealed
I. Death’s Verdict and the Laughter of Vultures
In a certain poor city, where crooked alleys crossed each other like withered blood vessels on the body of a dying organism, there stood a dilapidated house tucked away among cold, glassy skyscrapers. That house had nothing of value except for a single thing: a squared plot of land over three hundred square meters wide right at the main street frontage of a major avenue – a “patch of land worth gold” that real estate speculators were ready to shell out tens of billions of dong to swallow up.
The owner of that land was an old man who had passed the age of eighty. His body now consisted only of skin wrapped over bones, sunken cheeks, and murky, tired eyes staring blankly at the mold-stained ceiling. Long bouts of coughing repeatedly tore through his chest, bringing up clots of dark red blood that stained his old handkerchief.
Yet the bitterest thing did not lie in the terminal illness gnawing at his every cell, but in the sudden appearance of his biological children.
For over a decade, since their mother passed away and the ancestral fortune suddenly turned this house into a lucrative morsel, his four children – two sons, two daughters – had packed up and left this wretched house one after another. They carried away their contempt for poverty, built themselves upper-class facades in different neighborhoods, and completely cut off all contact with their aging father. Not a single phone call to check in, not a single gift package during seasonal changes. In their eyes, the old man was merely a redundant shadow, a rustic blotch hindering their path toward fake high society.
Yet the laws of life and death spare no one. News of the old man’s critical illness, with his health now counted in days, combined with rumors that the city government was preparing to widen the major road passing right before the house’s frontage, fanned a fiery cyclone of ambition in the hearts of those unfilial children.
In just a single weekend morning, the rotting wooden door of the old house suddenly burst open. The impoverished silence was torn apart by the sound of expensive leather shoes, dramatic gasps, and the suffocating scent of expensive foreign perfume.
His children returned. Not with the tears of filial piety, but with the greedy eyes of starving wolves surrounding a dying prey.
II. The Battle of Greed Under a Leaky Roof
— “Father! How did you end up in such a state?!” – the eldest son rushed to the bed, falling to his knees, trying to force out a few crocodile tears, his voice choked with dramatic anguish. – “I’ve searched for you all these years, my heart aching without knowing whether you were dead or alive!”
— “Get out of the way and let me see! Father, your youngest daughter is back!” – the third daughter shoved past her eldest brother, throwing herself over the old man’s cold, skinny hands, crying out in a shrill yet supposedly grief-stricken tone. – “How can anyone live in this dump! I’ve decided, today I must take you to my husband’s villa so we can properly care for and nurture your old age!”
— “Care for what? You’re all a bunch of phonies!” – the second son strode in angrily, pointing at his siblings and scoffing mockingly. – “Everyone knows what you’re eyeing. Father’s house, father’s land, it should belong to the eldest or the youngest, not parasites like you two who can’t take care of anybody!”
The small house instantly turned into a chaotic marketplace. Shouting, cursing, and fighting over the right to care for the old man echoed deafeningly. They didn’t look at how heavily the old man was breathing, nor did they care about the fresh blood pooled at the corner of his mouth. They were simply auctioning – auctioning filial piety through selfishness, measuring family bonds by the square meters of the golden land about to be cleared.
The old man lay quietly in bed, his chest rising and falling weakly. He watched his children turn red-faced and argue fiercely before him. A faint, extremely bitter and contemptuous smile flickered across his dry lips.
For over a decade, he had stood alone against aging and illness, boiling his own bowls of watery porridge, dragging his aching steps out to the porch to watch for a passing shadow. Now, with death closing in, they were fighting to play the “dutiful child” just because of a land title deed and tens of billions in compensation money.
Finally, after squabbling until their throats were dry, they reached a tactical consensus: the old man would rotate living at each person’s house every week, and most importantly – the issue of the will and asset distribution would be officially drawn up right here, under everyone’s observation, to avoid future disputes.
— “All right,” – the old man rasped in a broken voice, sounding like wind whistling through a rotting door crack. – “You want a will… I will give you a will. Exactly seven days from now, I will invite a lawyer to clearly announce each person’s share. Everyone will get their share… not a single coin missing.”
Hearing the words “not a single coin missing,” everyone’s eyes lit up like car headlights. Jubilation filled the faces of the unfilial ones. They hastily tidied up the room, bought a few boxes of expensive bird’s nest to place on the table, and sweetly promised to return to pick him up next week.
III. Seven Days of Playing the Dutiful Child
The next seven days played out like the most absurd and sickening comedy on earth.
Every day, a different child came to “care” for the old man according to the assigned schedule. The eldest son brought high-end dishes that the old man couldn’t stomach due to his stomach ulcers; the youngest daughter continuously recorded videos and took photos to post on social media with tear-drenched captions about sacred filial love, drawing thousands of views and likes from strangers who knew nothing of the reality.
They asked questions, massaged his limbs, smiled sweetly, but their eyes constantly darted toward the old wooden cabinet in the corner of the room – where he kept his important documents.
The old man quietly observed it all. He refused no gifts, objected to no flattery. He let the play run to its climax, knowing that the truth always comes to light eventually, and hypocrisy has an expiration date.
During quiet nights, when chest pain struck his aging body, he would prop himself up, opening a yellowed, frayed notebook. Under the dim bedside light, he turned page by page, reading back his careful notes about his life, his late wife, and the children whose humanity had been completely choked out by money.
A decision had long been brewing in the old father’s mind. He could not let evil and greed enjoy the fruits of the sweat and tears he and his wife had poured out their entire lives.
IV. The Fated Day and the Red Envelope
True to schedule on Sunday morning, the cramped living room of the house was packed with people. All four children were present early, dressed neatly and elegantly as if stepping into a major awards ceremony. The family’s elderly lawyer – stern-faced, carrying a black leather briefcase – arrived right on time.
The atmosphere in the room was so tense that the ticking of the old wall clock could be clearly heard.
— “Ladies and gentlemen,” – the lawyer spoke in a warm, resonant voice within the tight space. – “According to the final wishes of this house’s late owner – who drew his last breath last night – I am here today in the full presence of all four children to announce the final will.”
Hearing the words “drew his last breath last night,” all four children started, yet not a single tear of mourning fell. Instead, a flash of intense excitement gleamed in their eyes. They thought to themselves: The day has finally come! The billion-dollar golden land is about to officially enter our pockets!
— “Please read quickly, lawyer,” – the eldest son couldn’t suppress his impatience, rubbing his hands together and laughing loudly. – “We’ve already prepared the transfer procedures.”
The lawyer calmly opened his leather briefcase, pulled out an envelope securely sealed with red wax, and gently placed it on the central wooden tea table. He adjusted his glasses, carefully tearing the edge of the envelope, and pulled out a neatly, clearly typed stack of papers.
— “I shall read verbatim the legal will drawn up and notarized exactly three days ago, while the old gentleman was completely of sound mind:”
All four children held their breath, leaning forward, straining their ears to catch every word.
— “First, regarding the fourth-grade house and the front-facing plot of land over three hundred square meters located here – the family’s sole and largest asset…”
The lawyer paused for a beat, glancing at the ambitious faces glowing with anticipation, then slowly read the fated lines:
— “I hereby declare: All land use rights and ownership of this house have been legally and completely transferred to the Hong An Charity Foundation and the City Orphan Child Protection Fund six months ago. The sales contract has been completed, and the proceeds from the land sale have been transferred directly to the charity accounts as an unconditional donation.”
V. The Earthquake and the Screams of Greed
Boom!
Like an atomic bomb exploding right inside the narrow living room.
All four children froze on the spot. The satisfied smirks on their lips instantly hardened into twisted, bizarre grimaces.
— “What… what?!” – the eldest son fell backward, eyes wide, screaming at the top of his lungs. – “What did you just say? Sold?! Sold to whom? Where is the money?!”
— “Did you read the wrong thing?!” – the third daughter lunged toward the tea table, snatching the paper from the lawyer’s hand, her eyes darting frantically across the clearly printed capital letters. – “Impossible! That cannot be! This is fraud! Forged documents!”
— “Calm down, madam,” – the lawyer coldly pulled back his hand, extracting another legal file folder and placing it beside him. – “This is a copy of the notarized contract, bank transfer receipts, and tax authority confirmations. All legal procedures are entirely valid and irreversible.”
The harsh reality struck them like a sledgehammer.
Months ago, knowing his terminal illness and seeing through the selfish, greedy hearts of his children, the old man had secretly contacted authorities, proceeded to sell the entire multi-million-dollar golden land to a public investment organization, and transferred the colossal sum straight to charity foundations to help unfortunate souls out there.
He left not a single dime to his four unfilial children. Even this dilapidated shack now belonged to the state after the donation.
— “Bastard! Has he lost his mind?!” – the second son slammed his fist hard onto the table, his face drained of color, screaming frantically in utter despair. – “That is family property! That is our flesh and blood! How dare he sell everything off to outsiders?!”
— “That’s right! Selfish monster! Scumbag!” – the fourth child wailed miserably, not out of grief for a dead father, but weeping over the evaporated billions that had vanished right before their eyes.
They cursed, they screamed, they smashed everything in the living room, venting all their bitterness, misery, and dirty ambition onto the empty walls. They realized they had been played by the very old man they despised and abandoned throughout a week in the most perfect revenge play of a lifetime.
Outside the window, midday sunlight streamed down the small alley. The ancient house still stood there, quiet and serene.
In another realm, the old man was surely smiling. He had taught his pragmatic children the most expensive lesson on karma: Greed nurtured by unfiliality will always reap an empty-handed end, and what is not earned by the sweat of one’s brow can never truly belong to one.
