While on vacation, I return to my hometown to help my parents harvest pears. After seeing my Instagram post, my son's homeroom teacher, Ernest Dugan, sends me a private message.

"So you sell pears, Mr. Miller? The kindergarten hasn't finalized next month's fruit supplier yet, so we'll order from you. You won't suffer any loss from this deal. I'll pay five dollars per pound. You just need to arrange transportation and deliver them to the kindergarten."

I almost laugh out loud. My family's pears are the famous Green Jewel variety; they are known as the "Hermes of pears". They sell for over 100 dollars per pound on average. Five dollars wouldn't even cover the cost of a single pear.

Even though Ernest is being ridiculous, I still reply politely, "Sorry, all of our pears are reserved. You'll need to find another supplier."

To my surprise, Ernest immediately posts photos of my family's pears in the parent group chat.

He writes, "Next month's fruit selection for the kindergarten will be upgraded to Green Jewel pears. If anyone wishes to buy some for personal consumption, feel free to place orders below. The price is five dollars per pound."

The chat group buzzes with activity as parents rush to place orders one after another.

Three days later, they block the truck carrying my shipment to Windford. Determined to force the sale, they surround the vehicle and refuse to let it leave.

Before they can ransack the truck, several military-plated vehicles arrive and seal off the road. A group of officials steps out with stern, angry expressions.

One of them coldly demands, "These are pears specially ordered for this weekend's state banquet. Who said you could lay a finger on them?"

Mr. Dugan's message instantly sent the group chat into an uproar.

"Really? Green Jewels at five dollars a pound?"

"Mr. Dugan, you're amazing! How did you manage to negotiate such a great deal?"

"I want ten pounds! Let's get this chain going—I'm jumping in first!"

"I want 20 pounds! Save 20 pounds for me!"

The group chat was immediately flooded with messages, and within ten minutes, over 40 parents had already joined in.

I furrowed my brow tightly but forced myself to hold back my anger and typed out a clarification in the group chat.

"Sorry, everyone, this batch of pears has already been fully reserved. There really aren't any extras. Please stop adding to the chain."

Mr. Dugan replied instantly, "Mr. Miller, you've been flexing pears all over your Instagram, so how could you possibly not have any? Could it be that you just don't want to help out the kindergarten?"

The head of the parent committee, Jay Bradshaw, also jumped in.

"Exactly, it's not like we're asking you to give us the pears for free. Five dollars a pound is more than generous. Even the supermarket sells them for just over three dollars."

Before I could even explain, the rest of the parents in the group started making snide remarks.

"I think he just wants to sell them at a higher price, and that's why he won't sell to us."

"The kindergarten has spent two years educating your kid. Is it really too much to ask for a little help?"

"Your Green Jewel is probably just a knockoff variety at best. How good could it possibly be? Five dollars a pound might sound low, but we're buying in bulk!"

I bit my lip hard. So, selling off my pears for dirt cheap when they were over 100 dollars a pound was their idea of "helping out"?

"My family's Green Jewel has a heritage of over 300 years. It's not a knockoff, and the price is far more than five dollars a pound. Besides, the annual yield is extremely limited, so there really aren't any left to sell. I hope everyone can understand."

I had put it as tactfully as I could, but the parents in the group chat began mocking me one after another.

"Oh, please! Far more than five dollars? How much could it really be? 50 dollars? You think we've never had any good food before?"

"Who are you trying to impress? You're only selling pears. Honestly, I don't get why you're acting so superior."

"The fact that Mr. Dugan even asked and you still said no is wild."

Jay sent a hand-over-mouth laughing emoji with the message, "Some people are just so narrow-minded. I can't believe they've lived this long."

I felt utterly drained reading these malicious taunts.

Finally, Mr. Dugan posted a screenshot of a conversation in the group.

"I've already reported this to the principal. This is an official collective purchase by the kindergarten. Mr. Miller, just think of it as supporting the kindergarten.

"Make sure you have the stock ready. I'll arrange for the parents to come pick it up from your place when the time comes. You don't even have to deliver it yourself."

Looking at his message, I felt a tight knot in my chest. Since when had I agreed to this purchase? And where was the purchase contract?

Yet, not a single person in the group spoke up for me. In fact, aside from those praising Mr. Dugan, the rest were ridiculing me for not knowing what was good for me.

I decided to stop reading the group messages altogether. It wasn't like they could just show up and take them by force if I just ignored them, right?

When I dropped Stanley off at the kindergarten the next morning, I happened to run into Mr. Dugan.

Seeing me approach, he immediately smiled and stepped forward.

"Mr. Miller, how are the pears coming along? Everyone's waiting eagerly, you know."

A few parents nearby who were also dropping off their kids turned to look at us when they heard this.

I tightened my grip on Stanley's little hand. Not wanting to lose my composure in front of him, I simply said, "Mr. Dugan, I made it very clear in the group chat yesterday. This batch of pears has already been fully reserved. I truly don't have any extras."

Mr. Dugan's smile gradually faded. He glanced at me first, then looked down at Stanley.

"Fine. Actually, this works out—I've been meaning to let you know that Stanley hasn't been behaving well lately. So, I'll have to reconsider whether to give him the lead dancer spot in the end-of-term showcase," he said icily.

My heart jolted.

Stanley had been practicing extra hard for two whole months for that lead dancer spot, and Mr. Dugan had promised it to him.

I instinctively looked at Stanley and noticed something was off about him today.

"Daddy, Mr. Dugan made me sit all by myself at the very back yesterday, and he also wouldn't let me play building blocks with the other kids. Did I do something wrong?"

He hid behind me, too scared to even look at Mr. Dugan.

Those words sent a tremor through my heart.

Mr. Dugan was a teacher, so how could he mistreat such a young child just because I hadn't given in to his unreasonable demands?

I bit my lip and crouched down to help Stanley straighten his backpack.

"It's okay, bud. Daddy will handle it. You just be good in class today, alright?"

Stanley lowered his head even further.

Just then, Jay walked over with his son, making snide remarks as he passed.

"Some parents make it seem like helping the kindergarten out is the hardest thing in the world. Funny how they forget whose care their child is under."

The surrounding parents exchanged glances and started whispering among themselves.

I stayed silent and held Stanley's hand a little tighter.

When we reached the classroom door, I discovered that Stanley's seat had been moved all the way to the back corner. He didn't even have a desk mate anymore.

The other kids were clustered together in small groups, chatting and laughing—not a single one of them spared Stanley a glance.

Stanley walked to his seat and placed his backpack down neatly.

"Daddy, go to work. I'll be fine on my own," he said with a forced smile.

Seeing how mature he was being about it, I felt like a knife had been driven straight through my heart. He was only five years old, yet he had already learned how to comfort the adults while swallowing his own hurt.

I gently stroked his head, then turned and walked out of the classroom to find Mr. Dugan.

He was sitting in his office, sipping tea. When he saw me walk in, the corner of his mouth curled up involuntarily.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Miller. How can I help you?" Mr. Dugan asked.

I took a deep breath. "Mr. Dugan, why has Stanley been moved to the very back? And why is he saying you won't let the other kids play building blocks with him?"

Mr. Dugan clicked his tongue, then shrugged and said, "Mr. Miller, no offense, but isn't Stanley being a little too sensitive? The whole class rotates seats—how come I haven't heard anyone else complain? Why is he the only one who finds it a problem?"

I clenched my fists, but Mr. Dugan just fixed me with a smug, knowing look.

"On the other hand, why don't you reconsider the matter with the pears? After all, Stanley still has over a year left at this kindergarten."

By the time I left the office, my palms were slick with cold sweat. It wasn't because I was scared, but because I was barely keeping myself from snapping.

That afternoon, I was in the orchard supervising the packing of the final batch of pears when my phone suddenly buzzed several times.

The parent group chat was blowing up with messages.

"I heard Mr. Miller is a divorced single father? No wonder he's so stingy and petty," said a parent I had never interacted with at all.

Jay chimed in instantly. "I heard his ex-wife ran off, and now he's supporting his family by selling pears. The kindergarten tuition isn't exactly cheap, so how is he even affording it?"

Someone else piled on. "He's probably behind on tuition too. Shouldn't the kindergarten look into it? Or maybe he claims to sell pears on the surface, but behind closed doors he's actually selling…"

Though the person didn't finish the sentence, everyone knew exactly what they were implying.

In an instant, the group chat was no longer filled with just mockery. Rumors were now spiraling out of control as well.

My hand trembled uncontrollably as I gripped the phone.

My wife, Carmen Wiley, didn't run off. She passed away three years ago from sudden high-altitude heart disease while doing technical aid work in the western mountains.

And now these people, who didn't even know her name, were slandering her and fabricating stories about me in the most vile way possible.

I took a deep breath and typed out a message, "First, my family situation is none of your business. I will hold anyone who spreads rumors legally accountable.

"Second, the market price of Green Jewel is over 100 dollars a pound, and yet you're all trying to buy them for five dollars? How is that different from robbery?"

After I sent the message, even more pandemonium broke out in the group chat.

"Over 100 dollars a pound? What do you take us for? Fools?"

"I knew he was just trying to rip us off. No wonder he's been so stubborn about not selling to us!"

Mr. Dugan, who had been silent all along, suddenly dropped a screenshot from a certain shopping app into the group chat.

It read, in bold letters, "Authentic Green Jewel—ten pounds for 50 dollars, free shipping."

"Mr. Miller, these pears are Green Jewel too, and the seller's only selling them for five dollars a pound. Are your pears made of gold or something?" Mr. Dugan replied mockingly.

The others immediately piled on.

"Thank goodness Mr. Dugan is looking out for us. Otherwise, we would've been completely scammed."

"This is hilarious. I wouldn't even pay 50 dollars for that, and he's going on about over 100 dollars a pound?"

My hands were trembling.

They had no idea that my family's Green Jewel was the fruit of centuries-old heirloom trees, and that most of what was sold online was fake goods passed off under a famous name. Even if some were genuine, none could possibly be better than ours.

I typed out a long message explaining the differences between the varieties and why my family's pears were so expensive.

But after I sent it, the message didn't even make a ripple.

"You spin a good story, I'd give you that. But quit trying to bluff us with that nonsense."

No one was willing to listen to me—or rather, they didn't care at all whether what I said was true. Instead, they only believed whatever they wanted.