Late that night, my personal information was completely exposed. Frenzied netizens dug into my heroic father’s background, only to “discover” he had merely sold pancakes.
People who had once bought from him even posted photos to back their claims.
For a while, the internet exploded: “Second-generation pancake vendor fakes martyr background to get 20 bonus points on the college entrance exam.”
The next morning, the school called and said they needed to re-verify my eligibility for the bonus points.
I was about to leave with the documents when my mother gently took them from me.
“You stay here and choose your dream university. I’ll go.”
Worried about the backlash from last night, I hesitated and considered going with her.
Just then, my phone rang—it was the admissions offices of both Westfield University and Harborview Institute.
I looked at the screen awkwardly.
“Go on, answer it. I’ll be back after submitting the papers.”
She patted my shoulder reassuringly, took the documents, and left.
After ending the call, I checked the time and, instinctively, opened my Instagram Moments again.
A new status from Ryan, posted just half an hour ago, caught my eye:
“I’m exposing a fraud today. Just wait for the good news!”
The post included a photo of him and a few friends standing in front of the school building.
A deep sense of dread rose in my gut.
I immediately called my mother—no answer.
My hands shook as I searched for my homeroom teacher’s number and hit dial.
“Liam Price! Has my mom arrived at school? I can’t reach her!”
There was a pause on the other end.
“She came… but…” Teacher Liam’s voice dropped.
“She was suddenly surrounded by a few boys. Things got violent…”
I dashed to school. As soon as I reached the gate, a loud commotion erupted near the honor roll.
I sprinted in that direction. From afar, I saw a crowd of students—
some filming, others laughing or cheering.
“Move!”
I shoved my way through.
What I saw made my blood run cold. My mother was being held against the glass display of the honor roll.
A bloodied baseball bat came crashing down on her hands.
“What are you doing?!”
I rushed forward but was blocked by two tall boys.
Ryan turned, spotted me, and smirked.
“Oh look, the top scorer himself showed up.”
“Perfect timing! We caught someone sneaking into the archives!”
My mother, pale and trembling, tried to explain:
“I’m not stealing anything… I was just passing by the archives…”
I pushed through and threw my arms around her. She trembled in agony.
Her hands were swollen, misshapen, and dripping with blood.
“What thief? This is my mother!”
“I see now!” Ryan exclaimed with a sneer, as if a mystery had just been solved.
“You were scared your fake martyr story would fall apart, so you sent your mom to swap out the documents!”
“I didn’t forge anything!” I cried, rummaging through my mother’s bag in desperation.
“My father is a real martyr. Look…”
I held up a certificate, neatly sealed with transparent tape.
“This is my father’s martyr certificate… and…”
I carefully unfolded a yellow photograph.
“This is him, in uniform.”
Ryan raised a brow and took the items from my hand.
I exhaled deeply.
At last, my mother’s name would be cleared. My father’s honor was restored.
