If She Loves to Beg So Much, I'll Let Her Beg

Gwendolyn, my mother in-law, had taken my two-year-old to play poker with her friends. While no one was watching, the stroller rolled down a slope—straight into a large pond in the area.

I got the call and rushed to the scene. My heart nearly stopped when I saw my child unconscious. I rushed to her and was about to start CPR.

But right then, Gwendolyn dropped to her knees with a dramatic thud, clutching my hands and banging her forehead on the ground. Everyone looked straight at us.

“Carol,” she cried, “this is all my fault! I didn’t watch her properly—I’m begging you, please forgive me! If you don’t forgive me, I’m not going to get up!”

My daughter’s face was turning blue. Panic surged through me. I yanked my hands out of Gwendolyn’s grip so I could start resuscitation and she collapsed theatrically to the ground.

That’s when my husband slapped me without warning. “Carolyn! My mom’s already on her knees begging you! What more do you want?!”

——

The people gathered around were mostly Gwendolyn’s poker-card friends. They went quiet for a second… then the whispers started.

“She’s being unreasonable. The old lady’s already begging—what else does she want?”

“If you can’t bother to raise your own kid and dump her on the grandma, how’s that Gwen’s fault?”

I caught my husband’s furious glare but held back my tears, laying my daughter down and continuing CPR. Tears fell one by one onto her tiny face as I worked to bring her back.

Meanwhile, Gwendolyn was still crying and making a scene. “She’s just a playful kid—she fell into the pond! I’ve already begged my daughter-in-law, but she won’t forgive me! She even pushed me! What’s the point of living anymore? I might as well jump into the lake too!”

The crowd gasped. Some rushed to stop her. Not one of them cared if my daughter lived or died.

The crowd froze for a moment, startled by her outburst, then scrambled to stop her. Not a single person checked to see if Casey was still breathing.

Leon grabbed his mother by the arm. “Mom, it’s not your fault—it’s hers! She gave birth and then didn’t even bother to raise the kid. What did you do wrong? And it’s just a girl, anyway. If it really matters, I’ll give you a grandson next time.”

A few of the women who’d been playing cards with Gwendolyn smiled approvingly. “Old Gwen, you raised that boy right. He knows where his loyalties are. All that love you gave him wasn’t wasted.”

Finally... finally! After what felt like an eternity, Casey sputtered and coughed up a mouthful of water. Her little face, once ghostly blue, slowly began to regain color.

Leon didn’t even pause to check on her. He yanked me up off the ground and shoved me down in front of his mother.

“Get on your knees right now and apologize to my mom! Do you really have no respect for the elders? Is that why you think you have the right to hit her?!”

My heart went cold. From beginning to end, Leon hadn’t spared a single glance for our daughter. He didn’t care that Casey almost died—his only concern was whether his mother felt “disrespected.”

Gwendolyn had a habit of begging so desperately, on her knees like she was an actor in the telenovellas. The first time she did it, I was horrified—filled with guilt. I immediately knelt with her, apologizing again and again, practically begging her to get up.

But that time… she had been the one at fault, too.

Over time, it kept happening.

That was when I finally realized: Gwendolyn never actually felt guilty.

Her begging, kneeling, sobbing and over-the-top theatrics weren’t acts of remorse. They were performances—emotional manipulation at its finest. A way to shift the focus, play the victim and make everyone feel sorry for her… while turning all the blame on me.

Because of those little “shows,” Leon and I had fought more times than I could count.

Today, my child nearly died—all because Gwendolyn decided a round of mahjong was more important than watching her granddaughter.

Instead of owning up to it, she fell right back on her old routine. She cried. She begged. She made it all about her.

And it worked—again.

Everyone around us glared at me. My husband even slapped my face in public!

“I didn’t hit her!” I said, my voice shaking as I looked Leon in the eyes. “I was trying to save Casey. She was holding onto me—I couldn’t perform CPR!”

Leon pointed at our daughter, who was still weak and struggling to breathe.

“Save her from what? She’s fine now, isn’t she?” he shouted. “If you weren’t always off doing God-knows-what, this never would’ve happened. You had that child and then you dumped her on my mom—you don’t even raise her yourself. And now you have the nerve to blame her?”

He jabbed a finger at his mother. “Apologize to her. Make her feel better. Or don’t even bother coming home tonight.”

I stared at the man I had loved for seven years. The man I had married despite everyone’s warnings. The man who, now, stood there screaming at me—striking me—while our child fought to breathe just feet away.

The man who only saw a mother’s tears, not a daughter’s life.