"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.
