Enraged, Michael grabbed a lawnmower from the yard and slashed his neighbor’s neck.
The neighbor’s blood spurted a meter high, and he collapsed without uttering a word.
I looked at Michael, trembling and huddled in a corner, and knelt before my father.
“Dad, please save Michael! He did all this to save me!”
I begged him, crying.
“Dad, we can’t be heartless! Michael’s life is ruined if he goes to jail.”
My father, his eyes red, went to the police station. Less than a year later, he died unexpectedly in prison.
Michael was evicted, and our small grocery store was given to the neighbor.
From then on, we began a life of homelessness.
We were bitten by stray dogs, bullied by homeless people, and Michael even suffered from pneumonia and fever, nearly dying. I knelt before the doctor, begging to donate my blood to sell for money, and that’s how he was saved.
Until I was sixteen, Michael’s uncle, who had been living abroad, returned. Using his skills as a top international lawyer, he won Michael’s case, recovering most of the family fortune, and six months later found me, Michael, and among homeless children.
From that moment on, Michael became the eldest son of the Shaw family.