From the very beginning, fate seemed to enjoy playing jokes on the Roosevelt and Astor families.
The Roosevelt patriarch, Henry Roosevelt, was a sharp-tongued businessman with pockets deeper than oceans. The Astor patriarch, Richard Astor, was no less—a man with a chest full of pride and an ego so inflated it needed its own chair at the dinner table. By some cosmic misfortune, both men decided to marry on the exact same day, at the exact same hour, in the same district.
The guests who received two wedding invitations that week still complained about having to split themselves in half.
Inside the Roosevelt ballroom, Henry lifted his champagne and declared, "My wife is the most beautiful bride this city has ever seen!"
Just across the street, Richard was shouting, "Wrong! My wife is so radiant that the moon might resign tonight out of shame!"
The poor band players in both halls had to play louder each time the grooms' voices rose, trying desperately to drown out the echoing insults traveling across the street.
Even on their wedding night, neither couple could let the other win. Henry boasted, "Our honeymoon suite is on the top floor with a view of the Bosphorus." Richard snapped back, "Ha! Ours has a golden bathtub. Beat that!"
It was the kind of competition that didn't rest, not even when the world slept.
---
Years passed, and both families built their mansions side by side. Not surprisingly, the rivalry carried on like an infectious disease.
"Add another inch to my roof," Henry barked at his architect one morning.
"Another inch higher for ours too," Richard demanded immediately after.
The poor architects nearly fainted from stress, forced to measure every corner until finally, both houses stood at the exact same height. The solution pleased neither family, but at least no lawsuits were filed.
In the kitchen, things weren't better. Margaret Roosevelt cooked lamb stew, and the smell danced through the windows toward the Astor mansion. "Let them smell perfection," she smirked, fanning the aroma with a folded magazine.
"Oh please," sneered Eleanor Astor from the other side, frying fish and flinging the windows open wide so the scent floated back like a challenge.
It wasn't long before neighbors stopped visiting either house during dinner hours. "Too dangerous," they whispered. "It smells like heaven but feels like a warzone."
The night battles, however, were the most legendary. To prove which couple was "more passionate," both families screamed louder and louder until they actually began using microphones and speakers.
One unfortunate garbage collector approached the bins set between the two mansions at midnight, only to hear monstrous howls and groans reverberating from both houses. The poor man threw down his trash bag and sprinted into the night, muttering, "The devil lives there—I swear it!"
" these houses are possesed!!!"
---
Inevitably, the competition extended to parenthood.
When both women became pregnant in the same year, the battles intensified.
"My belly is rounder. Clearly, my baby is stronger," Mrs. Roosevelt would boast.
"Nonsense. Mine kicks harder!" Mrs. Astor snapped.
But the greatest battle was yet to come in : The child birth !
On the fated day, both women went into labor—at the same hospital, in delivery rooms only a hallway apart. Their screams echoed through the corridors like dueling trumpets.
"Push, Mrs. Roosevelt!" the doctor encouraged.
"Push, Mrs. Astor!" another doctor shouted at the same time.
The nurses whispered among themselves, shaking their heads.
"They're in neighboring wards."
"God help us all."
Margaret Roosevelt clutched her belly. "My child is kicking harder. Clearly stronger!"
Eleanor Astor shot back, panting through contractions. "Nonsense! Mine is destined for greatness. Look at how quickly I'll deliver!"
The hospital corridors became a war zone of screams, insults, and bragging. One nurse muttered, "The babies aren't even born yet, but they're already competing."
Finally, within mere minutes of each other, two cries filled the halls.
At 9:42 a.m., a baby girl's cry rang out—Sofia Roosevelt. Only minutes later, at 9:47 a.m., a boy's wail followed—Louis Astor.
From Ward A: Waaaaah! — Sofia Roosevelt had arrived.
From Ward B: Waaaaah! — Louis Astor announced himself.
Both fathers stormed into the corridor at the same time, passing each other with candy boxes in hand.
"Here, sweets for everyone!" Henry bellowed. "My daughter will grow to rule the world!"
Richard shoved his own box forward, barking, "Nonsense! My son will be the king of kings!"
The nurses sighed. These children hadn't even opened their eyes properly, but already the war for supremacy had been passed down like a family heirloom.
The exhausted nurses rolled their eyes. "Heaven save us… they've doubled the problem."
From that very day, the rivalry wasn't just a family curse. It became an inheritance. And Sofia Roosevelt and Louis Astor—two newborns swaddled in competing blankets—were destined to carry the torch of enmity their parents lit.
And the world had no idea just how explosive their future would be.