Chapter 1
My daughter locked herself in her room, crying so hard her whole body shook. I forced the door open and found her clutching a test paper that had been torn into pieces and taped back together.
It was a Math Olympiad qualifying exam.
Perfect answers. A glaring zero.
“Mom,” she sobbed, “Mrs. Henderson said three times five doesn’t equal five times three the way I solved it. She said I was cutting corners. She tore up my paper in front of everyone, disqualified me from the competition, and told the whole class not to talk to me.”
I stared at the deep red scratch marks on my daughter’s wrist, then grabbed my phone and called the principal directly.
“I have just one question,” I said. “What benefit does driving a math-loving child to despair bring to your school’s reputation?”
The line went dead. Only the dial tone remained.
My daughter stopped sobbing. She just looked at me, her eyes hollow.
I helped her into her jacket, took her ice-cold hand, and headed straight to school.
When I pushed open the door to the Math Olympiad office, the laughter inside died instantly. Several teachers looked over. Mrs. Henderson was leaning back in her chair, sizing me up with a sneer curling her lips.
“Which parent are you? This is break time.”
Without a word, I walked to her desk and slammed the reconstructed test paper down. The torn pieces scattered across the desktop. That red zero glared under the fluorescent lights.
She snorted, picked up one piece between two fingers, and held it to the light.
“Oh, this? This is what you have a problem with? My grading is correct.”
“Three times five and five times three are both fifteen,” I said, staring into her eyes.
“Of course they are.” She flicked the paper back onto the desk. “But the problem-solving approach was wrong. So it’s a zero. I teach Math Olympiad. I teach logical rigor, not grocery-store arithmetic. Today she doesn’t follow the rules in solving problems. Tomorrow she won’t follow rules in life. I tore up that paper to show her—and the whole class—what rules mean.”
She shot to her feet, towering over me, her voice suddenly sharp.
“I’ve seen plenty of parents like you. Half-educated, yet you dare question professional teaching. Kids are ruined by people like you. Lazy thinking, cutting corners—it’s all learned at home. Now your kid has problems, and you have the nerve to come make trouble at school?”
With each word, she jabbed a finger at the desk, spittle flying into my face. My daughter trembled harder behind me, her small hand clutching my shirt desperately.
“Say that again,” I said, glaring at her.
“So what if I do?” She stepped forward, nearly colliding with me. “I said you can’t educate your child. You use her as a trophy, pushing her with shortcuts to learn this and that. Now you question the teacher? Your education is shit. Go home. Stop embarrassing yourself here.”
I looked straight into her eyes and enunciated every word.
“Mrs. Henderson, you tore up her perfect paper in front of the class, incited everyone to isolate her, physically hurt her, and abused her. And now, in front of her, you’re using the filthiest words possible to insult her mother.”
I paused.
“As a teacher, are you even qualified?”
“Abused?” She laughed as if she’d just heard the world’s funniest joke. “A teacher disciplining a misbehaving student—isn’t that natural? I see. Your daughter’s lack of discipline comes from being spoiled by you.”
She actually walked around the desk and reached for my daughter’s wrist.
“Come here. Let me educate her properly in front of you. Show her what’s right and wrong.”
I yanked my daughter behind me, using my body as a shield. Mrs. Henderson grabbed at empty air, her face flushing with rage.
“Get out of my way! Don’t interfere with my educating students. You uneducated piece of shit. Go home. Stop embarrassing yourself.”
Her face turned red as she raised her hand.
“Stop right there!”
A furious shout came from the doorway.
The principal walked in, his face dark with anger, glaring at Mrs. Henderson, who stiffly lowered her hand.
He turned to me, his tone controlled.
“Ma’am, please come to my office.”
In the principal’s office, he poured us hot water. I didn’t touch mine. I simply laid the torn test paper on his desk, then took my daughter’s hand and showed him the deep red marks on her wrist.
He stared at the test and the injuries for a long time before finally looking up.
“This is our fault,” he said deliberately. “Please give me three days. The school will investigate thoroughly and handle this seriously. In three days, I guarantee that you and your child will get justice.”
I looked at the mix of apology and anger on his face, then down at my drowsy daughter in my arms.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll wait three days.”
I took time off work to stay with my daughter. She didn’t cry or speak. She just sat in the corner, staring at a spot on the wall, motionless.
I pushed food to her lips. She would open her mouth, chew, swallow—all without blinking.
I stared at my phone, unlocking the screen every few seconds, checking for missed calls.
All my hope hung on that one phone call.
A phone call that never came.
On the afternoon of the third day, the school didn’t call.
But my company’s HR director did.
“Sarah, come to the office immediately.”
When I got there, my supervisor and the director were both waiting. A printed email was pushed in front of me, the subject line glaring up at me:
Regarding Your Company Employee Sarah Mitchell’s Moral Misconduct and Malicious Defamation of Our School’s Teachers
I read it word by word.
In the email, I had become a crazy woman who burst into offices, verbally abused teachers, and threatened the principal. My daughter’s wrist injuries had become evidence that I had coached her to self-harm for sympathy.
At the end, the school kindly reminded the company that an employee with such corrupt morals would damage corporate reputation.
The edges of the paper crumpled in my grip.
The email had been sent to the public complaints inbox.
The whole corporation had received it.
The director’s voice was emotionless.
“The company values employee integrity.”
I froze, my voice shaking.
“This is slander. They bullied my daughter.”
My supervisor cut me off impatiently.
“I don’t care about your personal issues. Your private problems are affecting the company’s image. It’s incredibly unprofessional.”
I looked at him in silence. My stare seemed to make him uncomfortable.
The director cleared his throat and pushed another document toward me.
“Given the negative impact you’ve caused the company, sign this.”
I reached out, but somehow I couldn’t grasp the paper. It slipped through my fingers and floated to the floor.
I returned home numbly.
In the mailbox was a registered letter from the school.
I tore it open.
A sheet of paper fluttered out.
An expulsion notice.
Student psychologically unstable. Conspired with parent to fabricate facts. Maliciously attacked teachers. Disrupted teaching order.
My phone lit up.
A class group message.
Mrs. Henderson had posted a Math Olympiad class photo. She stood in the middle, smiling brightly with the children gathered around her.
Caption:
With the bad apple removed, we’re an excellent group again. Victory belongs to you.
Below it were waves of praise from parents and a flood of likes.
Thank you for your hard work, Mrs. Henderson. Support Mrs. Henderson! No rules, no standards.
I laughed.
This was their justice.
Holding the termination letter and the expulsion notice, staring at that glowing photo, I laughed until tears came. Laughed until my whole body shook. Until my stomach cramped.
“Mom.”
My daughter stood behind me, looking at the two papers in my hands. Her gaze moved from the expulsion notice to my tear-streaked face. Her body swayed, and she had to grip the doorframe to stay upright.
“Mom?” she asked softly, her voice hollow. “Did you lose your job because of me?”
Her words made my chest tighten.
Before I could answer, someone pounded on the door.
I opened it to find Mrs. Henderson and Mr. Richardson, the head of the Math Olympiad department.
She held a cardboard box.
Wearing a fake smile, Mrs. Henderson leaned against the doorframe, her contemptuous gaze sweeping over us.
“Ms. Mitchell, we came to deliver your daughter’s things.”
Richardson shoved the box into my arms. I stumbled backward, and books spilled out. On top was a drawing my daughter had once won an award for, now bearing a clear muddy shoe print.
“Can’t leave things behind. Our school values follow-through.”
Her lips curled with heavy sarcasm.
“We also wanted to communicate with you face-to-face.”
She leisurely adjusted her scarf.
“We regret your child’s expulsion, but you need to reflect on yourself. Faking injuries. Threatening the school. Now you’ve even lost your job. People like you who don’t follow rules are rats wherever you go.”
Mrs. Henderson snorted and stepped forward, bending down condescendingly toward my daughter.
My daughter shuddered violently, hiding in my arms.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Mrs. Henderson whispered into her ear, her voice low and dripping with malice. “With morals like yours, what kind of child did you expect to raise? Little liar.”
“Shut up!”
My face burned red, my fingers gripping the doorframe so tightly my knuckles turned white.
“My daughter’s test was perfect. You’re the ones twisting the truth.”
“Perfect?” Mrs. Henderson laughed even louder, straightening up and deliberately raising her voice. “Oh, that paper full of shortcuts? I tore it up in front of the whole class and threw it in the trash. I did it to educate her for you. Our school cultivates elites, not social garbage from families like yours.”
“You’re lying!” I shouted back, but my voice trembled.
My daughter clutched my clothes behind me, her small body shaking violently from fear and humiliation.
“Lying?” Richardson sneered, pointing at our cramped, shabby apartment. “Ms. Mitchell, don’t be ungrateful. We came here today to give you advice. Don’t show up near the school again. Or else.”
He paused, his gaze shifting to my daughter, his smile turning cold.
“We can’t guarantee your daughter won’t accidentally fall down the stairs and hurt that pretty face.”
I shook all over, my chest heaving.
Their voices were so loud that the neighbor’s door cracked open.
Mrs. Henderson noticed and, instead of lowering her voice, shouted even louder in that direction.
“Everyone look! This is the parent who coached her child to self-harm for money. Better watch out.”
The neighbor’s door slammed shut.
Mrs. Henderson clapped her hands in satisfaction.
“All right. Message delivered. Take care of yourself.”
They left, leaving the door wide open and chaos everywhere.
My daughter let out suppressed sobs behind me.
“Mom, I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
I closed the door, shutting out the entire world.
Kneeling down, I held her tightly.
“It’s not your fault, sweetheart. It’s never your fault.”
My voice was soft and steady.
The next day, I took my daughter with me to handle my resignation. Holding her hand, I opened the office door.
The entire hallway fell silent.