My father, furious beyond reason, called me again.
His name flashed on my phone screen, but I didn’t answer. I hung up, letting the call go dead without hesitation.
After work, I drove home, the tension from the day heavy on my shoulders. As I approached my door and reached for my keys, a hand suddenly clamped over my mouth. A surge of panic gripped me as I was dragged into a dark corner.
“You’re that ungrateful daughter who let her mother die, right?” a voice hissed in my ear. “We’re here to avenge your parents!”
I struggled hard, jerking my body against their hold until I managed to break free. My heart pounded as I stepped back and pointed to the surveillance camera mounted in the corner above us.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded, forcing steel into my voice. “That camera captures everything with a 360-degree view. If you touch me, not one of you will get away with it.”
The group hesitated, exchanging glances. Then, one of them sneered, his face twisted with disdain.
“We’re acting on behalf of justice! Do you know how many people online want to expose you? Even if you call the police, no one will side with you.”
As they continued their tirade, I shifted my stance, glancing behind them out of the corner of my eye. My mind raced, piecing together a plan.
When they moved closer, I lunged, grabbing the leader by the arm and slamming him hard against the wall. He cried out in pain, and I used the momentary chaos to turn and sprint toward the back of the hallway.
Luckily, I spotted an open elevator just in time. I darted inside, slamming the button for the doors to close. Once they slid shut, I quickly dialed the police. My voice was sharp, but my hands shook as I described what had happened.
The elevator let me out on the upper floor, where I found a hidden spot to wait for. Minutes passed like hours as the group's angry shouts echoed through the halls.
“You shameless woman! How dare you hit our leader?”
Just as they spotted me and moved in to attack, I heard the unmistakable sound of heavy boots pounding up the stairs. The police arrived, their presence an immediate wall of authority that separated me from the mob.
The officers restrained the group, but one of them wasn’t ready to give up so easily. He pulled out a camera and thrust it toward the nearest officer.
“Look at this!” he yelled. “We’ve been live-streaming everything. This woman is the ungrateful daughter who deliberately let her mother die. We’re just doing what everyone wants us to do!”
I tilted my head just enough to peek at the live stream on his screen.
Over 100,000 viewers were watching, and the title blared:
[Taking Down the Ungrateful Daughter—Justice Served with Gifts.]
I couldn’t help but let out a sharp, bitter laugh. Justice? These people weren’t heroes. They were opportunists, hungry for attention under the guise of righteousness.
The officers weren’t swayed. “No matter the reason, trespassing on someone else’s property is against the law,” one said firmly. The live stream was promptly shut down, and the group was escorted out.
Before the feed disappeared, I caught a final glimpse of the comment section:
[This woman just has a punchable face. I’d love to slap her a couple of times.]
[What she did to her mother is unforgivable. She deserves whatever she gets.]
I clenched my fists tightly, feeling a surge of emotions threatening to break through. But I swallowed them down and turned toward my apartment, forcing myself to stay calm.
...
Later that evening, the property management team called to apologize.
“Ma'am, we’re sorry about the incident,” the manager said, his tone filled with contrition. “There was a shift change, and we failed to monitor the situation properly. Please rest assured, this won’t happen again.”
I lived in a luxury apartment complex, one known for its top-notch security and exclusivity. Their excuse of a “momentary lapse” was laughable.
I stared at the phone briefly, then replied coolly, “Don’t get caught up in what’s happening online. Just focus on doing your jobs.”
“Of course, Ma'am,” the manager stammered.
“Today, I was lucky nothing happened to me,” I continued, my tone turning icy. “If something had, you’d all be held accountable, too.”
They hurriedly agreed, their apologies growing more fervent.
Satisfied, I hung up.
However, the incident had only added fuel to the fire online. The frenzy grew louder, with new theories and speculations popping up about my relationship with my parents. Some wondered if there was deep-seated hatred between us. Most mocked me, branding me as cold and incapable of love.
I saw it all. Every comment, every post. And I felt nothing.
I stayed home for the next two days, avoiding the outside world. As the public outrage escalated, many of my employees chose to resign. I didn’t stop them, approving each resignation without hesitation.
On the evening of the second day, my phone buzzed with a new message from my father.
He had sent a photo of a mourning hall, simple and somber.
“Your mother’s seventh day is coming up,” the message read. “I borrowed money to buy her a coffin. Can you come to the funeral?”
I stared at the screen for a long time, and the words blurred in my vision.
