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."
