You grew up poor.
So you chased comfort.
Now you hoard it.
You anoint it with holy words:
ambition. legacy. stability.
As if greed were a scripture.
As if fear were a family heirloom.
But don’t call it inheritance,
when the servant’s daughter
asks if your son
truly owns two beds.
And you, with the calm of kings,
answer: “He’s worked hard for it.”
He is six.
His hardest work so far
is surviving the weight of sleep.
Her mother bends her back
against your floor.
Washes away your filth
until the water itself
begs for rest.
Merit always arrives
already blind.
You confuse inheritance
with effort.
You confuse protection
with love.
You confuse possession
with parenthood.
You claim you’ve shattered
the chains of poverty.
You haven’t.
You’ve polished them.
And locked them
on other wrists.
Every empire calls itself noble
until the walls whisper
what they’re built from.
Not stone, not gold
but borrowed childhoods,
mortgaged dreams,
and the spines of the nameless.
Your son does not sleep
on two beds.
He sleeps on two bodies.
And one of them
still bows before you.
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