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.

The moment they laid eyes on the ruined Bentley, a collective gasp filled the air.

Everyone froze in place.

Then my son shoved a car key into my hands, tears streaming down his face. He wailed loudly, "Mommy, didn't you say this was the most expensive car? You told me if I scratched it, I'd get the biggest Transformer! Why is this uncle yelling at me?!"

His pitiful cries turned every gaze into knives aimed straight at me.

"Rachel, are you insane?!" Richard's voice was raw with fury as he roared at me.

"You actually taught our son to scratch cars?!"

My father-in-law trembled violently, his finger shaking as he pointed at me.

"You—you're trying to destroy our Caldwell family, aren't you?! To ruin us completely?!"

I shook my head, trying to explain. "I didn't— I—"

Smack!

My mother-in-law's hand landed on my cheek with a brutal slap. "You still dare to argue?" she spat.

"Jonas is only six. Do you think a child would lie?!"

"What does a child even understand? If you weren't a useless mother, how could he do something like this?"

"I think you just can't stand our family doing well—you're trying to ruin us on purpose!"

The car owner's eyes sharpened when he saw me. He pulled out his phone and pointed it at me, starting another live stream with a sensational title.

[Shocking News! Evil Mother Teaches Six-Year-Old Son to Scrape a Multi-Million Luxury Car!]

He screamed into the camera, "Everyone, this is the woman! I heard her son say it—she taught him to do it!"

"This car just arrived from overseas and hasn't even been warmed up yet! This woman is crazy!"

Yesterday's scandal hadn't died down; the new livestream exploded instantly, drawing hundreds of thousands of viewers. The barrage of comments scrolled like a tidal wave.

[It's that bitch again, is she sick?!]

[What kind of brain teaches a child to wreck a car worth millions?!]

[People like her don't deserve to be mothers—society would be better off without her!]

[Call the police! Arrest this lunatic!]

The audience's fury was swift and merciless. My face shot up the trending lists across platforms again—new labels slapped me like brand marks: "toxic mother," "car-scratching instigator," "social degenerate."

More people gathered at the scene. Fueled by the car owner, the crowd's temper reached a fever pitch. Fingers pointed, curses hurled, and someone even flicked a cigarette butt in my direction. I stood at the center like a condemned criminal, spat upon by a thousand tongues. I met one pair of eyes after another—hungry, hateful, as if they wanted to tear me limb from limb.

And then I felt the small weight of my son in my arms and saw, for the briefest moment, a glint triumph crossed his face—an expression that only I could see.

I did something that stunned everyone.