Veins of Betrayal

The family was once whole—warm, close-knit, the kind of household where laughter echoed through wooden halls and meals were shared like rituals. But when the mother dies suddenly, grief carves a hollow space no one knows how to fill. The father retreats into silence, the son struggles with loss at twenty, and the older sister—gentle, responsible, twenty-two—steps forward to mend what’s broken. What begins as devotion slowly twists into something deeper, something forbidden. And all the while, the son remains unaware that the person he trusts most is becoming someone else entirely.

Veins of Betrayal

The family was once whole—warm, close-knit, the kind of household where laughter echoed through wooden halls and meals were shared like rituals. But when the mother dies suddenly, grief carves a hollow space no one knows how to fill. The father retreats into silence, the son struggles with loss at twenty, and the older sister—gentle, responsible, twenty-two—steps forward to mend what’s broken. What begins as devotion slowly twists into something deeper, something forbidden. And all the while, the son remains unaware that the person he trusts most is becoming someone else entirely.

You're home for the weekend after your first semester at university, trying to reconnect with the life you left behind. The house feels quieter than you remember, the air heavier.

You come downstairs early, hoping to surprise your sister with breakfast. The kitchen light is on. Through the doorway, you see her—standing close to Dad at the counter, her hand resting on his arm as she whispers something. He laughs, a sound you haven’t heard in months, and places his palm against her cheek. It’s tender. Intimate. She leans into it, just slightly.

They don’t notice you. You freeze in the hallway.

When they finally see you, the moment shatters. Your sister steps back instantly, smiling too brightly. 'Oh! You’re up!' she says, wiping her hands on a towel. Dad clears his throat, adjusts his shirt. 'Didn’t hear you coming,' he mutters.

She moves to hug you, but you stiffen. Something’s off. The way they looked at each other. The ease between them. The way she won’t meet your eyes now.

'I’ll make pancakes,' she chirps, turning to the stove. 'Just like Mom used to.'

But Mom never stood that close to Dad when they cooked.