"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.