I was in the kitchen making breakfast when my phone buzzed nonstop—the community homeowners’ group was tagging me over and over.

[Owner of Unit 401, your son scratched my brand-new Porsche again!]

[What kind of thing are you raising? His hands are like knives—want him sent to juvenile detention?]

[If it happens again I'll cut his hands off!]

Other owners pile on.

[My car got scratched last week too—from bumper to bumper, there's a huge gouge!]

[He's probably gone through the whole underground garage by now. No manners at all—how did you even raise him?]

[No wonder I saw him walking around jingling a key last time—he was using it to scratch cars! What a little beast!]

I numbly switched off the stove and pulled out the account book from the drawer—the one I kept solely for recording compensation payments.

This was the fifty-sixth time my son has scratched someone's car.

The first time it was an old Jetta; I paid two thousand. The tenth time it was the BMW downstairs; I paid twenty thousand. The thirty-sixth time it was a Lamborghini in the underground garage; I paid one hundred thousand—that wiped out the last of our savings.

Every payment since then, I’ve had to scrape together by borrowing, over and over, shamelessly.

I went to the shiny Porsche and my son looked at me with that innocent face of his.

"Mom, didn't you say if I scratch a car I get a new toy? Why is that uncle so angry?" he asked.

Here we go again.

He wrecked things on purpose and then, with his angelic, childish words, pushed the blame squarely onto me. The owner, furious, opened his phone and started live-streaming, pointing the camera at me.

"Look, everyone—this is the mother who teaches her son to scratch cars! She is the cancer of society!"

The screen flooded with bullet comments, an avalanche of judgment aimed squarely at me.

In the video, I stood in stained loungewear, greasy hair plastered to my cheeks. Staring at my own reflection in the camera, then at the scratches carved into the car, I suddenly let out a laugh.

——

I’ve long since lost count of how many times I’ve been pointed at and cursed.

The very first time was three years ago, when my son was only three.

I was watering plants on the balcony. My usually quiet son took the key I dropped on the ground and drew a crooked little flower on the neighbor's new car.

The neighbor's anger crushed me. I apologized until my throat hurt and promised to pay for the damage.

Back then, I thought my son was just curious, too young to understand.

I told him again and again not to touch, not to break what belonged to others.

He would nod vaguely, and I thought he had listened.

But soon it was the neighbor’s car, then cars in the community, in the mall, even those parked on the roadside.

Wherever there was a car, there was his “masterpiece.”

I apologized until my throat went dry, paid until my pockets were empty, and tried every method I could think of—gentle reasoning, harsh scolding, slaps on the palm, hours of standing punishment.

I even took him to see a child psychologist.

However, the result said he was perfectly normal, even highly intelligent—just a little mischievous.

Yet he never changed.

Each time he turned those clear, trustful eyes on me and swore, "Mom, I won't do it again."

Then the next time, he picked a more expensive car and etched a deeper line. Afterward, he’d meet my gaze with an even purer innocence, as if none of it were his fault.

Like now—when all the blame was pushed onto me, and I became the one condemned, cursed, and despised, calling me a bad mother.

I couldn't understand why he kept doing it. All I knew was I haven't slept a good night in a long time. I wake up every night, check the door, check the window, terrified he's slipped out to create a new debt, a new shame.

At that moment, with the car owner’s furious roar blasting in my ear, the live camera glaring in front of me, and the screen overflowing with insults and curses—I saw myself reflected on the feed: greasy hair plastered to my cheeks, clothes stained, still clutching that battered compensation ledger in my trembling hand.

I laughed bitterly.

Was this really my fault?

Why did the child I nearly lost my life to bring into this world turn me, a thirty-year-old woman, into the haggard image of someone twenty years older?

Before marriage, I had been a well-known illustrator in the industry, running my own studio, chasing my passions.

Now my eyes are sunken, my skin was sallow. Day after day, I dealt with car scratches and endless bills, followed everywhere by people's pointing fingers and disdainful stares. Like a rat hiding in the gutter, despised and unwanted.

When I laughed, the car owner's fury only grew.

"Your son did this to my car, and you still have the nerve to laugh?"

"If I were such a failure, I'd have bought a block of tofu and smashed my own head against it already!"

Other onlookers joined in, venting their frustrations on me.

"Exactly! Your son looks clever enough. Teaching him not to scratch cars—would that really kill you?"

"You can't even manage this little thing. What's the point of you being alive?"

"Shame on you—you're making all us women look bad!"

Just when the crowd's anger reached its peak, my husband, Richard, appeared.

"What's going on?"

He strode over in a crisp white shirt, looking polished and composed. One glance at the glaring scratch on the car, and he instantly understood.

He bowed his head slightly and apologized with practiced elegance. "I'm truly sorry. My wife failed to discipline the child properly. Don't worry. She will cover all the damages."

I turned to look at Richard. He was still the same as when I first met him—clean, dignified, and courteous.

And just like our son, he effortlessly shifted all the blame onto me.

At the sight of him, the neighbors' tempers eased.

"Mr. Caldwell, look at the mess this has caused."

"Honestly, you really need to keep a tighter rein on your wife. She has ruined that boy with her teaching."

"Forget it, forget it. It's not your fault, Mr. Caldwell. We pity you, really—marrying such a troublesome woman, cleaning up after her every day."

Their words pierced me, each glance filled with sympathy for him and condemnation for me.

I stood there like a criminal on trial, while Richard held Jonas in his arms.

Our son nestled against his chest, playing the role of a frightened, innocent child misled by his mother.

From beginning to end, I was the only villain.

Richard sighed heavily, as though carrying unbearable burdens. "Sorry, this is my fault for failing to keep order at home."

Then he looked at me, his tone laced with a helpless reproach. "When I'm with Jonas, he never touches other people's things. Why can't you teach him properly?"

Yes. Why?

Why was my son an angel in Richard's hands, yet with me, he turned into a relentless little devil who couldn't stop wrecking cars?

I wanted to explain, but the words dissolved into a bitter smile.

Forget it. I had said all of this countless times before.

And every time, Richard's answer was the same. "It's your problem. Stop blaming it on our son."

I stayed silent, quietly unlocking my phone to make the transfer.

Richard, holding our son, walked away without looking back.

The next day was his parents' golden wedding anniversary.

I woke up early, dressed Jonas in new clothes, and crouched down to remind him over again. "Jonas, your grandparents invited many guests today. At the hotel, you must behave. Don't run around, and don't touch anything that doesn't belong to you, understand?"

He blinked his big eyes and nodded hard.

"Got it, Mommy. I'll be a good boy today."

Richard emerged from the bedroom, casting me a cold glance. "Is that really necessary? You make it sound like guarding against a thief."

"If you paid more attention to him on a daily basis, would he really fail to grasp even the simplest rules?"

Here it was again.

When I apologized and paid compensation for our son, he sat in his study with his headphones on, busy with work.

When I spoke gently to teach our son, he said I was too soft, lacking authority.

When I scolded our son harshly, he said I was too hot-tempered and would scar the boy for life.

When I took our son to see a psychologist, he said I was making a fuss and should first reflect on myself.

He always stood on his moral high ground, enjoying the peace I bled myself dry to maintain, only to then lecture me from above.

Every ounce of effort I poured in, he trampled underfoot. And after driving me into the role of a hysterical madwoman, he would smile gently and say, "See? You can't even control your own emotions. How can you expect to raise our son properly?"

In the past, I would fight back. I would doubt myself, break down, and cry until my chest ached. But now—I didn't even have the strength to open my mouth.

—

That day, I took our son to the five-star hotel where we had reserved a private room. It was my in-laws' golden wedding anniversary.

By the time we arrived, my in-laws and relatives were already there.

At the sight of my son, everyone's faces lit up with joy.

"Oh my, our eldest grandson looks so handsome today!"

"Yes, and so clever too!"

And indeed, my son behaved unusually well that day. He sat quietly by my side, eating in small, polite bites.

The adults drank and laughed, reminiscing about old times.

Meanwhile, my son tugged at my sleeve and whispered, "Mommy, I need to go to the bathroom."

The fact that he came to me first filled me with a warm sense of relief.

Richard even reached out to ruffle his hair, smiling proudly before glancing at me. "See how obedient Jonas is? I don't understand what you're always so anxious about."

I ignored him and led my son to the restroom outside the private room.

I waited by the door. But before long, a shrill car alarm ripped through the air from the direction of the parking lot.

"Fuck! Who the hell did this? Who scratched my car?!"

"That's my brand-new limited-edition Bentley!"

"Which blind bastard did this? Get out here right now!"

My stomach dropped. Panic surged in my chest.

I banged on the bathroom door.

"Jonas? Are you in there?"

The restroom was empty.

My heart seized. I bolted like a madwoman toward the parking lot.

In the middle of a growing crowd, I saw a sleek black Bentley, its gleaming surface marred by a deep, ugly scratch that ran from hood to trunk.

A man in an expensive suit was roaring in rage beside it.

And that scratch—I knew it too well.

My frantic arrival, combined with the commotion, drew Richard and the relatives over.